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AT THAT MOMENT A METEOR SHOT ACROSS THE HEAVEN. 


JULIAN HOME 


A TALE OF COLLEGE LIFE. 


BY / 

FREDERIC W. FARRAR. 



New York: 

W. L. ALLISON CO., 

PUBLISHERS. 

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V 















PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 


It is impossible for an Author to be fully aware of the 
defects of any work of his own until he has read it over 
sufficiently long after its composition to enable him 
to judge of it dispassionately and impartially. Such a 
perusal has made me more than ever conscious of cer- 
tain imperfections in this story, the existence of which 
I had previously suspected rather than discovered. 
Some of these imperfections, so far as they were capable 
of remedy, I have endeavored to remove in the present 
Edition. Keenly alive as I am to those that yet remain, 
I still venture to cherish the hope that the tale may 
prove both interesting and beneficial to some readers in 
the future, as I know that, in spite of its numerous 
deficiencies, it has been in the past. 


















































































































































































































































































































CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Speech-Day at Harton 7 

II. Julian Home 15 

III. A Retrospect 22 

IV. How Julian lost a Fortune 33 

V. Saint Werner’s . . 44 

VI. Rencontres 57 

VII. The Scorn of Scorn 66 

VIII. Study and Idleness 76 

IX. The Boat-race 84 

X. Contrasts 91 

XI. Screwed in 99 

XII. A Gust of the Soul 109 

XIII. The Clerkland Scholarship 118 

XIV. Mr. Carden 133 

XV. Kennedy’s Dishonor 141 

XVI. A Day of Wonder 154 

XVII. A Night of Terror 166 

XVIII. The Alpen-Gluhen 174 

XIX. Only a Blush 182 

XX. Bruce the Tempter 189 

XXI. One of the Simple Ones 198 

XXII. De Vayne’s Temptation 209 


vi. CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XXIII. Kennedy’s Wine-party, and what came of it 219 

XXIV. De Vayne’s Christmas Holidays 229 

XXV. Memory the Book of God 238 

XXVI. Hazlet 252 

XXVII. Julian and Kennedy 266 

XXVIII. Kennedy’s Despair 274 

XXIX. Eva enters the Chapel 284 

XXX. Repentance 293 

XXXI. Bruce in Trouble 303 

XXXII. A Quiet Prospect 314 

XXXIII. Farewell 323 



JULIAN HOME. 


CHAPTER THE FIRST. 

SPEECH-DAY AT HARTON. 

A little bench of heedless bishops there, 

And here a chancellor in embryo. 

Shenstone. 

It was Speech-day at Harton. From an early hour 
handsome equipages had been dashing down the street, 
and depositing their occupants at the masters’ houses. 
The perpetual rolling of wheels distracted the atten- 
tion every moment, and curiosity was keenly on the 
alert to catch a glimpse of the various magnates whose 
arrival was expected. At the Queen’s Head stood a 
large array of carriages, and the streets were thronged 
with gay groups of pedestrians, and full of bustle and 
liveliness. 

The visitors — chiefly parents and relatives of the 
Harton boys — occupied the morning in seeing the 
school and village ; and it was a pretty sight to ob- 
serve mothers and sisters as they wandered with de- 
lighted interest through the scenes so proudly pointed 
out to them by their young escort. Some of them 
were strolling over the cricket-field, or through the 
pleasant path down to the bathing-place. Many 
lingered in the beautiful chapel, on whose painted 
windows the sunlight streamed, making them flame 
like jewelry, and flinging their fair shadows of blue, 
and scarlet, and crimson, on the delicate carving of the 

7 



8 


JULIAN HOME. 


pillars on either side. But, on the whole, the boys 
were most proud of showing their friends the old 
school-room, on whose rude panels many a name may 
be deciphered, carved there by the boyish hand of 
poets, orators, and statesmen, who in the zenith of 
their fame still looked back with fond remembrance 
on the home of their earlier days, and some of whom 
were then testifying by their presence the undying 
interest which they took in their old school. 

The pleasant morning wore away, and the time for 
the Speeches drew on. The room was thronged with 
a distinguished company, and presented a brilliant and 
animated appearance. In the centre was a table 
loaded with prize-books, and all round it sat the 
secular and episcopal dignitaries for whom seats had 
been reserved, while the chair was occupied by a 
young Prince of the royal house. On the other side 
was a slightly-elevated platform, on which were 
seated the monitors who were to take part in the day’s 
proceedings, and behind it, under the gallery set apart 
for old Hartonians, crowded a number of gentlemen 
and boys who could find no room elsewhere. 

“Now, papa,” said a young lady sitting opposite the 
monitors, “I’ve been asking Walter here which is the 
cleverest of those boys.” 

“Ahem! young men you mean,” interrupted her 
elder sister. 

“ No, no ! ” said Walter positively, “ call them boys ; 
to call them young men is all bosh; we shall have 
‘young gentlemen ’ next, which is awful twaddle.” 

“ Well, which of those boys on the platform is the 
cleverest — the greatest swell he calls it? Now you 
profess to be a physiognomist, papa, so just see if you 
can guess.” 

“I’m to look out for some future Byron or Peel 
among them; eh, Walter?” 

“ Yes.” 

The old gentleman put on his spectacles, and de- 
liberately looked round the row of monitors, who 
were awaiting the Head-master’s signal to begin the 
speeches. 


JULIAN HOME. 9 

“Well, haven’t you done yet, papa? what an age you 
are. Walter says you ought to tell at a glance.” 

“Patience, my dear, patience. I’ll tell you in a 
minute. There,” he said, after a moment’s pause, 
“ that boy seated last but one on the bench nearest us 
has more genius than any of them, I should say.” Pie 
pointed to one of the youngest-looking of the monitors, 
who would also have been the most striking in per- 
sonal appearance had not his features worn a look of 
greater sadness and greater delicacy than was desir- 
able in a boyish face. 

“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” chuckled Walter and his 
sister. “ Try again.” 

“ I’m very rarely wrong, you little rogue, in spite of 
you ; but I’ll look again. No, there can be no doubt 
about it. Several of those faces show talent, but one 
only has a look of genius, and that is the face of the 
boy I pointed out before. What is his name?” 

“Oh, that’s Home. He’s clever enough in his way, 
but the fellow you ought to have picked out is the 
monitor I fag for — Bruce, the head of the school.” 

“Well, show me your hero.” 

“ There he sits, right in the middle of them, oppo- 
site us. There, that’s he just going to speak now.” 

He pointed to a tall, handsome fellow, with a look 
of infinite self-confidence, who at that moment made a 
low bow to the assembly, and then began to recite 
with much force a splendid burst of oratory from 
one of Burke’s great speeches ; which he did with 
the air of one who had no doubt that Burke himself 
might have studied with benefit the scorn which he 
flung into his invective, and the Olympian grace with 
which he waved his arm. A burst of applause followed 
the conclusion of his recitation, during which Bruce 
took his seat with a look of unconcealed delight and 
triumph. 

“ There, papa — what do you think of that ? Wasn’t 
I right now?” said the young IPartonian, whose name 
was Walter Thornley. 

But the old gentleman’s only answer was a quiet 
smile, and he had not joined in the general clapping. 


10 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ Is Home to take any part in the speeches ? ” he in- 
quired. 

“ O yes ! he’s got some part or other in one of the 
Shakspeare scenes ; but he won’t do it half as well as 
Bruce.” 

“ I observe he’s got several of the prizes.” 

“ Yes, that’s true. He’s a fellow that grinds, you 
know, and so he can’t help getting some. But Bruce, 
now, never opens a book, and yet lie’s swept off no end 
of a lot, as you’ll see.” 

“Humph! Walter, I don’t much believe in your 
boys that ‘ never open a book,’ and, as far as I can ob- 
serve, the phrase must be taken with very considerable 
latitude ; I still believe that the boy who ‘ grinds,’ as 
you call it, is the abler boy of the two.” 

“ Yes, Walter,” said his brother, an old Ilartonian, 
“ whenever a fellow, who has got a prize, tells you he 
won it without opening a book, set him down as a 
shallow puppy, and don’t believe him.” 

By this time four of the monitors were standing up 
to recite a scene from the Merchant of Venice, and 
Home among them ; his part was a very slight one, 
and although there was nothing remarkable in his way 
of acting, yet he had evidently studied with intelligence 
his author’s meaning, and his modest self-possession 
attracted favorable regards. But, a few minutes after, 
he had to recite alone a passage of Tennyson’s Morte 
d’ Arthur, and then he appeared to greater advantage. 
Standing in a perfectly natural attitude, he began in 
low clear tones, enunciating every line with a distinct- 
ness that instantly won attention, and at last warming 
with his theme he modulated his voice with the re- 
quirements of the verse, and used gestures so graceful, 
yet so unaffected, that when, with musical emphasis, 
he spoke the last lines, — 

“ Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, 

And on the mere the wailing died away,” — 

lie seemed entirely absorbed in the subject, and for 


JULIAN HOME. 


11 


half a minute stood as if unconscious, until the deep 
murmur of applause startled his meditations, and he 
sat down as naturally as he had risen. 

“Well done, old Home,” said Walter; while Mr. 
Thornley nodded rapidly two or three times, and mur- 
mured after him, — 

“ And on the mere the wailing died away.’’ 

“ Really, I think Julian did that admirably, did he 
not?” said a young and lovely girl to her mother, as 
Home sat down. 

“By jingo,” whispered AY alter, “I believe these 
people just by us are Home’s people.” 

“People?” said his sister; “what do you mean by 
his people ? ” 

“O you know, Mary; you girls are always sham- 
ming you don’t understand plain English. I mean his 
people” 

Mary smiled, and looked at the strangers. “ Yes, no 
doubt of it,” she said, “ that young lady has just the 
same features as Mr. Home, only softened a little ; more 
refined they could not be. And they’ve been hearing 
all your rude remarks, Walter, no doubt.” 

The boy was right, for when the speeches were over, 
they saw Home otter his arm to the two ladies and lead 
them out into the courtyard, where everybody was 
waiting, under the large awning, to hear the lions of 
the day cheered as they came down the school steps. 
Bruce was leading the cheers; he seemed to know 
everybody and everybody to know him, and as group 
after group passed him, he was bowing and smiling 
repeatedly while he listened to the congratulations 
which were lavished upon him from all sides. Among 
the last his own family came out, and when he gave 
his arm to his mother and descended the school-steps, 
one of the other monitors suddenly cried — 

•“ Three cheers for the Head of the school.” 

The boys cordially echoed the cheers, and taking off 
his hat, Bruce stood still with a flush of exultation on 
his handsome face, in an attitude peculiar to him when- 
ever he was undergoing an ovation. 


12 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ Pose plastique : King Bruce snuffing up the in. 
cense of flattery ! ” muttered a school Thersites, stand- 
ing by. 

“Green-minded scoundrel,” was the reply; “that’s 
because he beat you to fits in the Latin verse.” 

“How very popular he seems to be, Julian,” said 
Miss Home to her brother, as they stood rather apart 
from the fashionable crowd. 

“Very popular, and, on the whole, he deserves his 
popularity ; how capitally he recited to-day ; ” and 
Julian loooked at him and sighed. 

“And now, mother, will you come to lunch,” he 
said ; “you’re invited to my tutor’s, you know.” 

They went and took a hasty lunch, heartily enjoy- 
ing the simple and general good humor, which was 
the order of the day ; and finding that there was still 
an hour before the train started which was to convey 
them home, Julian took them up to the old church- 
yard, and while they enjoyed the only breath of air 
which made the tall elms murmur in the burning day, 
he showed them the beautiful scene spread out at their 
feet, and the distant towers of Elton and St. George. 
Field after field, filled with yellowing harvests or graz- 
ing herds, stretched away to the horizon, and nothing 
on earth could be fairer than that soft sleep of the 
golden sunshine on the green and flowery meadow- 
land, while overhead only a few silvery cloudlets 
variegated with their fleecy lustre the expanse of blue, 
rippling down to the horizon like curves of white foam 
at the edges of a summer sea. 

“ No wonder a poet loved this view,” said Mrs. Home. 
“By the by, Julian, which is the tomb he used to lie 
upon ? ” 

“There! just behind us; that one with the frag- 
ments broken off by stupid picturesque tourists.” 

“ And so Byron really used, as a boy, to rest under 
these elms, and look at this lovely view!” said his 
sister. 

“Yes, Violet. I wonder how much he’d have given, 
in after-life, to be a boy again,” said Julian thought- 
fully ; “ and have a fresh start — a rejuvenescence, 


JULIAN HOME. 13 

beginning after a summer hour spent on the old tomb- 
stone;” and Julian sighed again. 

“My dear Julian,” said Violet, gaily rallying him, 
“ what a boy you are ! What business have you to 
sigh here of ail places, and now of all times ? That’s 
the second time in the course of an hour that I’ve 
heard you. Imagine a Harton monitor sighing twice 
on speech-day! You must be tired of us.” 

“ Did I sigh ? Abominably rude of me. * I really 
didn’t mean it,” said Julian ; and shaking off the influ- 
ences which had slightly depressed him for the moment, 
he began to laugh and joke with the utmost mirth 
until it became time to meet the train. He accom- 
panied his mother and sister to the station, bade them 
an affectionate farewell, and then walked slowly back, 
for the beauty of the summer evening made him loiter 
on the way. 

“Poor Julian ! ” said Violet to her mother when the 
train started ; “ he lets the sense of responsibility weigh 
on him too much, I’m afraid.” 

But Julian was thinking that the next time he came 
to the station would probably be at the end of term, 
when his school-boy days would be over. lie leaned 
against a gate, and looked long at the green quiet hill, 
with its tall spire and embosoming trees, till he fell into 
a reverie. 

A slap on the back awoke him, and turning round he 
saw the genial, good-humored face of one of his fellow- 
monitors, Hugh Lillyston. 

“Well, Julian, dreaming as usual — castle-building, 
and all that sort of thing, eh?” 

“ No ; I was thinking how soon one will have to bid 
good-bye to dear old Harton. How well the chapel 
looks from here, doesn’t it ? — and the church towering 
above it.” 

“The chapel being like a fair daughter seated at 
her mother’s feet, as your poetical tutor remarked the 
other day. Well, Julian I’m glad we shall leave to- 
gether anyhow. Come and have some tea.” 

Julian went to his friend’s room. The fag brought 
the tea and toast, and they spent a merry evening, 


14 


JULIAN HOME. 


chatting over the speeches, and the way in which the 
day had gone off. At lock-up, Julian went to write 
some letters, and then feeling the melancholy thought 
of future days stealing over him, he plunged into a book 
of poems till it was bed-time, being disturbed a good 
deal, however, by the noisy mirth which resounded 
long after forbidden hours from Bruce’s study over- 
head. Bruce was also to leave Harton in a month, 
and they were going up together to St. Werner’s 
College, Camford. But the difference was, that Bruce 
went up wealthy and popular; Julian, whose retiring 
disposition and refined tastes won him far fewer though 
truer friends, was going up as a sizar, with no prospect 
of remaining at the university unless he won himself 
the means of doing so by his own success. It was this 
thought that had made him sigh. 






CHAPTER THE SECOND. 

JULIAN HOME. 

O thou goddess, 

Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon’st 
In these two princely boys ; they are as gentle 
As zephyrs blowing beneath the violet, 

Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as fierce, 

Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud’st wind 
That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 

And makes him bow to the vale. 

Cymbeline, Act iv.sc. 2. 

It was but recently (as will be explained hereafter) 
that the circumstances had arisen which had rendered 
it necessary for Julian Home to enter St. Werner’s as a 
sizar; and since that necessity had arisen, he had been 
far from happy. A peculiar sensitiveness had been 
from childhood the distinctive feature of his char- 
acter. It rendered him doubly amenable to every 
emotion of pleasure and pain, and gave birth to a 
self-conscious spirit, which made his nature appear 
weaker, when a boy, than it really was. While he was 
at Harton, this self-consciousness made him keenly, 
almost tremblingly, alive to the opinions of others 
about himself. His self-depreciation arose from real 
humility, and there was in his heart so deep a 
fountain of love towards all his fellows, and so sym- 
pathizing an admiration of all their good or brilliant 
qualities, that he was too apt to suffer himself to be 
tormented by the indifference or dislike of those who 
were far his inferiors. 

It was strange that such a boy should have had 
enemies, but he was sadly aware that in that light 



16 


JULIAN HOME. 


some regarded him. Had it been possible to conciliate 
them without any compromise in his line of action, he 
would have done so at any cost ; but as their enmity 
arose from that vehement moral indignation which 
Julian both felt and expressed against the iniquities 
which he despised and disapproved, he knew that all 
union with them was out of his power. As a general 
rule, the best boys are by no means the most popular. 

It was the great delight of Julian’s detractors to 
compare him unfavorably with their hero, Bruce. 
Bruce, as a fair scholar and a good cricketer, with 
no very marked line of his own — as a fine-looking 
fellow, anxious to keep on good terms with everybody, 
and with an apparently hearty “ well met ” for all the 
world — cut against the grain of no one’s predilections, 
and had the voice of popular favor always on his side. 
While ambition made him work tolerably hard, as far 
as he could do so without attracting observation, the 
line he took was to disparage industry, and ally himself 
with the merely cricketing set, with some of whom he 
might be seen strolling arm-in-arm, in loud conver- 
sation, at every possible opportunity. Julian, on the 
other hand, though a fair cricketer, soon grew weary 
of the “ shop ” about that game, which for three 
months formed the main staple of conversation among 
the boys, and while lie took no great pains to conceal 
this fact, he in his turn found himself unable to enlist 
more than a few in any interest for those intellectual 
pursuits which were the chief joy of his own life. 

“ Home, I’ve been watching you for the last half- 
hour,” said Bruce, one day at dinner, “and you 
haven’t opened your lips.” 

“ I’ve had nothing to say.” 

“ Why not?” 

“Because, since we came in, not one word has been 
said about any human subject but cricket, cricket, 
cricket ; it’s been the same for the last two months ; 
and as I haven’t been playing this morning ” 

“ Well, no one wants you to talk,” interrupted 
Brogten, one of the eleven, Julian’s especial foe. “ l 
say, Bruce did you see ” 


JULIAN HOME. 


17 


“I was only going to add,” said Julian, with perfect 
good humor, heedless of the interruption, “that I 
couldn’t discuss a game I didn’t see.” 

“ Nobody asked you, sir, she said,” retorted Brogten 
rudely; “if it had been some sentimental humbug, I 
daresay you’d have mooned about it long enough.” 

“ Better, at any rate, than some of your low stories, 
Brogten,” said Lillyston, firing up on his friend’s be- 
half. 

“ I don’t know. I like something manly.” 

“ Vice and manliness being identical, then, accord- 
ing to your notions?” said Lillyston. 

Brogten muttered an angry reply, in which the only 
audible words were “ confound ” and “ milksops.” 

“ Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame ; 

Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name,” 

thought Julian ; but he did not condescend to make 
any further answer. 

“I hate that kind of fellow,” said Brogten, loud 
enough for the friends to hear, as they rose from the 
table ; “ fellows who think themselves everybody’s 
superiors, and walk with their noses in the air.” 

“I wonder that you will still be talking, Brogten; 
nobody marks you,” said Lillyston, treating with the 
profoundest indifference a stupid calumny. But poi- 
soned arrows like these quivered long and rankled 
painfully in Julian’s heart. 

Yet no sensible boy would have given Julian’s rep- 
utation in exchange for that of Bruce ; for in all ex- 
cept the mean and coarse minority, Julian excited 
either affection or esteem, and he had the rare inestim- 
able treasure of some real and noble-hearted friends ; 
while Bruce was too vain, too shallow, and too fickle 
to inspire any higher feeling than a mere transient 
admiration. 

Latterly it had become known to the boys that 
Julian was going up to St. Werner’s as a sizar, and 
being ignorant of the reasons which decided him, they 
had been much surprised. But the little clique of his 
enemies made this an additional subject of annoyance, 


18 


JULIAN HOME. 


and there were not wanting those who had the amaz- 
ing bad taste to repeat to him some of their speeches. 
There are some who seem to think that a man must 
rather enjoy hearing all the low tittle-tattle of en- 
vious backbiters. 

“ I knew he must be some tailor’s son or other,” 
remarked Brogten. 

“I say, Bruce, we shall have to cut him at St. Wer- 
ner’s,” observed an exquisite young exclusive. 

Such things — the mere lispings of malicious folly — 
Julian could not help hearing ; and they galled him so 
much that he determined to have a talk on the subject 
with his tutor, who was a St. Werner’s man. It was 
his tutor’s custom to devote the hour before lock-up on 
every half-holiday to seeing any of his pupils who had 
any heed of his advice or counsel; but as on the rich 
summer evenings few were to be tempted from the 
joyous sounds of the cricket-field, Julian found him 
sitting alone in his study reading. 

“Ila, Julian! ” he exclaimed, rising at once, with a 
frank and cordial greeting. “I hope that you are not 
in any trouble which brings you from bats and balls to 
so dull a place as your tutor’s study ?” 

“ No, sir, not in trouble exactly,” said Julian ; 
“ though I’ve come to ask you about something. But 
am I disturbing you ? If so I'll go and ‘ pursue vagrant 
pieces of leather again,’ as Mr. Stokes says when he 
wants to dismiss us to cricket.” 

“Not in the least. I rather enjoy being disturbed 
during this hour. But what do you say to a turn in 
the open air? One can talk so much better walking 
than sitting down on opposite sides of a fireplace with 
no fire in it.” 

Julian readily assented, and Mr. Carden took his 
arm as they bent their way down to the cricket-field. 
There they stopped involuntarily for a time, to look at 
the house match which was going on, and the master 
entered with the utmost vivacity into the keen yet 
harmless “ chaff ” which was being interchanged be- 
tween the partisans of the rival houses. 

“ What a charming place this field is,” he said, “ on 


JULIAN HOME . 


19 


a summer evening, while the sunset lets fall upon it 
the last ‘ innocuous arrows of its golden sheaf.’ When 
I am wearied to death with work or vexation — which, 
alas ! is too often — I always run down here, and it gives 
me a fresh lease of life.” 

Julian smiled at his tutor’s metaphorical style of 
speech, which he knew was in him the natural expres- 
sions of a glowing and poetic heart that saw no reason 
to be ashamed of its own warm feelings and changeful 
fancies ; and Mr. Carden, wrapped in the scene before 
him, and the sensations it excited, murmured to him- 
self some of his favorite lines : — 

“ Alas ! that one 

Should use the days of summer but to live, 

And breathe but as the needful element 
The strange superfluous glory of the air ! 

Nor rather stand in awe apart, beside 

The untouched time, and murmuring o’er and o’er 

In awe and wonder, ‘ These are summer days ! ’ ” 

“ Shall we stroll across the fields, sir, before lock- 
up? ” said Julian, as a triumphant shout proclaimed 
that the game was over, and the Park had defeated 
the Grove. 

“ Yes, do. By the by, what was it that you had to 
ask me about?” 

“ Oh, sir, I don’t think I’ve told you before ; but I’m 
going up to St. Werner’s as a sub-sizar.” 

Mr. Carden looked surprised. “ Indeed ! Is that 
necessary ? ” 

“Yes, sir; it’s a choice between that and not going 
at all. And what I wanted to ask you was, whether 
it will subject me to much annoyance or contempt ; 
because, if so ” 

“ Contempt , my dear fellow ! ” said Mr. Carden 
quickly. “Yes,” he added, after a pause, “ the con- 
tempt of the contemptible— certainly of no one else.” 

“ But do you think that any Ilarton fellows will cut 
me?” 

“ Unquestionably not ; at least if any of them do, it 
will be such a proof of their own absolute worthless- 
ness that you will be well rid of such acquaintances.” 


20 


JULIAN HOME. 


Julian seemed but little reassured by this summary 
way of viewing the matter. 

“ But I hope,” he said, “ that no one (even if they 
don’t cut me) will regard my society as a matter of 
mere tolerance, or try an air of condescension.” 

“Look here, Julian,” said the master; “a sub-sizar 
means merely a poor scholar, for whom the college has 
set apart certain .means of assistance. From this body 
have come some of the most distinguished men whom 
St. Werner’s has ever produced; and many of the 
Fellows (indeed quite a disproportionate number) began 
their college career in this manner. Now tell me— 
should you care the snap of a finger for the opinion or 
the acquaintance of a man who could be such an inef- 
fable fool as to drop intercourse with you because you 
are merely less rich than he? Don’t you remember 
those grand old words, Julian — 

“ Lives there for honest poverty 

Who hangs his head, and a’ that ? 

The coward slave, we pass him by, 

And dare be poor for a’ that.” 

“And yet, sir, half the distinctions of modern society 
rest upon accidents of this kind.” 

“ True, true ! quite true ; but what is the use of 
education if it does not teach us to look on man as 
man, and judge by a nobler and more real standard 
than the superficial distinctions of society ? But an- 
swer my question.” 

“Well, sir, 1 confess that I should think very lightly 
of the man who treated me in that way ; still I should 
be annoyed very much by his conduct.” 

“I really think, Julian,” replied Mr. Carden, “that 
the necessity which compels you to go up as a sizar 
will be good for you in many ways. Poverty, self- 
denial, the bearing of the yoke in youth, are the highest 
forms of discipline for a brave and godly manhood. 
The hero and the prophet are rarely found in soft 
clothing or kingly houses ; they are never chosen from 
the palaces of Mammon or the gardens of Belial.” 

They talked a little longer on the subject, and Mr. 


JULIAN HOME. 


21 


Carden pointed out how, at the universities, more than 
anywhere, the aristocracy of intellect and character are 
almost solely recognized, and those patents of nobility 
honored which come direct from God. “After a single 
term, Julian, depend upon it, you will smile at the sen- 
sitiveness which now makes you shrink from entering 
on this position. At least, I assume that even by that 
time your name will be honorably known, as it will be 
if you work hard. You must never forget that ‘ Virtus 
vera nobilitas’ is the noble motto of your own college.” 

“ Well, I will work at any rate,” said Julian ; “ indeed 
I musty 

“But may I ask why you have determined on going 
up as sizar ? ” 

“ O yes, sir. I am far too grateful for all your many 
kindnesses to me, not to tell you freely of my circum- 
stances.” 

And so, as they walked on that beautiful summer 
evening over the green fields, Julian, happy in the quiet 
sympathizing attention of one who was not only a mas- 
ter, but a true, earnest, and affectionate friend, told him 
some of the facts to which we shall allude in the retro- 
spect of the next chapter. 




CHAPTER THE THIRD. 

A RETROSPECT. 

Give me the man that is not Passion’s slave, 

And I will wear him in my own heart’s core, 

Yea, in my heart of hearts. 

Shakspeare. 

Julian’s father was Rector of Ildown, a beautiful 
village on the Devonshire coast. Mr. Home was a 
younger son, and therefore his private means were very 
small, and the more so as his family had lost in various 
unfortunate speculations a large portion of the wealth 
which had once been the inheritance of his ancient and 
honorable house. Mr. Home regretted this but little ; 
contentment of mind and simplicity of tastes were to 
him a far deeper source of happiness than the advan- 
tages of fortune. Immediately after his university 
career he had taken holy orders, and devoted to the 
genial duties of his profession all the energies of a vig- 
orous intellect and a generous heart. 

During his first curacy he was happy enough to be 
placed in the diocese of a bishop whose least merit 
was the rare conscientiousness with which he distri- 
buted the patronage at his disposal. Whenever a liv- 
ing was vacant, the Bishop of Elford used deliberately 
to pass in mental review all the clergy under his juris- 
diction, and single out from amongst them the ablest 
and the best. lie was never influenced by the spirit 
of nepotism ; he was never deceived by shallow de- 
claimers, or ignorant bigots, who had thrust themselves 
into the notoriety of a noisy and orthodox reputation. 
The ordinary Honorable and Reverend, whose only 
22 



JULIAN HOME. 


23 


distinction was his title or his wealth, had to look for 
preferment elsewhere ; but often would some curate, 
haply sighing at the thought that obscurity and poverty 
were his lot for this life, and meekly bearing both for 
the honor of his Master’s work, be made deservedly 
happy by at last attaining the rewards he had never 
sought. Few indeed were the dioceses in which the 
clergy worked in a more hopeful spirit, in the certainty 
that the good bishop never suffered merit to pass un- 
recognized ; and for talent and industry, no body of rec- 
tors could be compared to those whom Bishop Morris 
had chosen from the most deserving of the curates who 
were under his pastoral care. 

Mr. Home, after five years’ hard work, had been pro- 
moted by the bishop to a small living, where he soon 
succeeded in winning the warmest affection of all his 
parishioners, and among others, of his squire and 
churchwarden, the Earl of Raynes, who, from a feeling 
of sincere gratitude, procured for him, on the first op- 
portunity, the rectory of Ildown. 

Here, at the age of thirty, he settled down, with 
every intention of making it his home for life; and 
here he shortly after wooed and won the daughter of 
a neighboring clergyman, whose only dower was the 
beauty of a countenance which but dimly reflected the 
inner beauty of her heart. 

Very tranquil was their wedded life; very perfect 
was the peacefulness of their home. Under her hands 
the rectory garden became a many-colored Eden, and 
the eye could rest delightedly on its lawns and flower- 
beds, even amid that glorious environment of woods and 
cliffs, free moors and open sea, which gave to the vic- 
inity of Ildown such a nameless charm. But the beauty 
without was surpassed by the rarer sunshine of the life 
within ; and when children were born to them — when 
little steps began to patter along the hall, and young 
faces to shine beside the fire, and little strains of silvery 
laughter to ring through every room — there was a hap- 
piness in that bright family, for the sake of which an 
emperor might have been content to abdicate his throne. 
O that the river of human life could flow on for ever 


24 


JULIAN HOME. 


with such sparkling waters, and its margin be embroi- 
dered for ever with flowers like these ! 

Julian was their eldest son, and it added to the in- 
tensity of each parent’s love for him to find that he 
seemed to have inherited the best qualities of them 
both. Their next child was Violet, and then, after 
two years’ interval, came Cyril and Frank. The four 
children were educated at home, without even the as- 
sistance of tutor of governess, until Julian was thirteen 
years old ; and during all that time scarcely one domes- 
tic sorrow occurred to chequer the unclouded serenity 
of their peace. Even without the esteem and respect 
of all their neighbors, rich and poor, the love of 
parents and children, brothers and sister, was enough 
for each heart there. 

But the day of separation must come at last, how- 
ever long we may delay it, and after Julian’s thirteenth 
birthday it was decided that he must go to school. In 
making this determination, his father knew what he 
was about. He knew that in sending his son among a 
multitude of boys he was exposing him to a world of 
temptation, and placing him amid many dangers. Yet 
he never hesitated about it,* and when his wife spoke 
with trembling anxiety of the things which she had 
heard and read about school-life, he calmly replied that 
without danger there can be no courage, and without 
temptation no real virtue or tried strength. 

“Poor Julian! ” said Mrs. Home; “ but won’t he be 
bullied dreadfully ? ” 

“ No, dear ; the days of those atrocities about which 
you read in books are gone by for ever. At no respect- 
able school, except under very rare and peculiar cir- 
cumstances, are boys exposed to any worse difficulties 
in the way of cruelty than they can very easily prevent 
or overcome.” 

“But then those dreadful moral temptations,” 
pleaded the mother. 

“ They are very serious, love. But is it not better 
that our boy should learn, by tlieir means (as thou- 
sands do), to substitute the manliness of self-restraint 
for the innocence of ignorance — even on the very false 


JULIAN HOME. 


25 


supposition that such an innocence can be preserved ? 
And remember that he does not escape these tempta- 
tions by avoiding them ; from the little I have seen, it 
is my sincere conviction that for after-life (even in this 
aspect alone, without alluding to the innumerable other 
arguments which must be considered) the education of 
a public school is a far sounder preparation than the 
shelter of home. I cannot persuade our neighbor Mrs. 
Hazlet of this, but I should tremble to bring up Julian 
with no wider experience than she allows to her boy.” 

So Julian went to Harton, and, after a time thor- 
oughly enjoyed his life there, and was unharmed by 
the trials which must come to every school-boy ; so 
that when he came back for his first holidays, the 
mother saw with joy and pride that her jewel was 
not flawed, and remained undimmed in lustre. Who 
knows, how much had been contributed to that glad 
result by the daily and nightly prayer which ever as- 
cended for him from his parents’ lips, “Lead him not 
into temptation, but deliver him from evil?” 

For when he first went to school, Julian was all the 
more dangerously circumstanced, from the fact that he 
was an attractive and engaging boy. With his bright 
eyes, beaming with innocence and trustfulness, the 
healthy glow of his clear and ingenuous countenance, 
and the noble look and manners which were the fruit 
of a noble mind, he could never be one of those who 
pass unknown and unnoticed in the common throng. 
And since to these advantages of personal appearance 
he superadded a quick intelligence and no little activity 
and liveliness, he was sure to meet with flattery and 
observation. But there was something in Julian’s 
nature which, by God’s grace, seemed to secure him 
from evil, as though he were surrounded by an atmos- 
phere impermeable to base and wicked hearts. He 
passed through school life not only unscathed by, but 
almost ignorant of, the sins into which others fell ; and 
the account which his contemporaries might have 
given of their school-boy days was widely different 
from his own. He was one of those of whom the grace 
of God took early hold, and in whom “ reason and reli- 


26 


JULIAN HOME. 


gion ran together like warp and woof,” to form the 
web of a wise and holy life. Such happy natures — 
such excellent hearts there are ; though they are few 
and far between. 

To Hugh Lilly ston Julian owed no little of his hap- 
piness. They had been in the same forms together 
since Julian came, and the friendship between them 
was never broken. When Lillyston first saw the new 
boy, he longed to speak to him at once, but respected 
him too much to thrust himself rudely into his ac- 
quaintance. During the first day or two they ex- 
changed only a few shy words; for Julian, too, was 
pleased and taken with Lillyston’s manly, honest look. 
But both had wisely determined to let their knowledge 
of each other grow up, naturally and gradually, with- 
out any first-sight vows of eternal friendship, gener- 
ally destined to be broken in the following week. 

Lillyston had observed, not without disgust, that 
two thoroughly bad fellows were beginning to notice 
the new-comer, and determined at all hazards to tell 
Julian his opinion of them. So one day, as they left 
the school-room together, he said — 

“Do you know Brent and Jeffrey ?” 

“Yes; a little,” answered Julian. 

“Did you know them before you came, or any- 
thing?” 

“ No ; but they will wait for me every now and then 
at the door of the fourth form room when I’m coming 
out; and I’m sure I don’t want them ; but one doesn’t 
wish to seem uncivil, and I don’t know how to get rid 
of them.” 

“ ILm ! well, I wouldn’t see too much of them if I 
were you.” 

“No? but why?” 

“ Well, never mind — only I thought I’d tell you;” 
and Lillyston, half-ashamed at having taken this step, 
and half-afraid that Julian might misconstrue it, ran 
away. Julian, who was little pleased with the coarse 
adulation of Brent and Jeffrey, took his friend’s advice, 
and from that time he and Lillyston became more and 
more closely united. They were constantly together, 


JULIAN HOME. 


27 


and never tired of each other’s society; and at last, 
when their tutor, observing and thoroughly approving 
of the friendship, put them both in the same room, the 
school began in fun to call them Achilles and Patro- 
clus, Damon and Pythias, Orestes and Pylades, David 
and Jonathan, Theseus and Piritlious, and as many other 
names of paria amicorum as they could remember. 

Yet there was many a Harton boy who would have 
said, “Utinam in tali amicitia tertius ascriberer ! ” for 
each friend communicated to the other something at 
least of his own excellences. Lillyston instructed 
Julian in the mysteries of fives, racquets, football, and 
cricket, until he became an adept at them all ; and 
Julian, in return, gave Lillyston very efficient help in 
work, and inspired him with intellectual tastes for 
which he felt no little gratitude in after-days. The 
desire of getting his remove with Julian worked so 
much with him that he began to rise many places in 
the examinations; and while Julian was generally 
among the first few, Lillyston managed to be placed, 
at any rate, far above the ranks of the undistinguished 
herd. 

So, form by form, Lillyston and Julian Home 
mounted up the school side by side, and illustrated the 
noblest and holiest uses of friendship by adding to 
each other’s happiness and advantage in every way. I 
am glad to dwell on such a picture, knowing, O holy 
Friendship, how awfully a school-boy can sometimes 
desecrate thy name. 

Three years had passed, and they were now no longer 
little boys, but in the upper fifth form together, and 
Julian was in his sixteenth year. It was one March 
morning, when, shortly after they entered the school- 
room, the school “ Custos ” came in and handed to the 
master a letter — 

“ It’s for Mister Home, sir, by telegraph.” 

The master called Julian (whose heart beat quick 
when he heard his name), and said to him — 

“ Perhaps you had better take it out of the room, 
Home, before you read it, as it may contain something 
important.” 


28 


JULIAN HOME. 


With a grateful look for this considerate kindness, 
Julian took the hint, and leaving the room, tore open 
the message, which was from his mother — 

“Dear Julian — Come home instantly ; your father 
is at the point of death. I cannot add more.” 

The hoys heard a cry, and the master made a sign to 
Lillyston, who had already started to his feet. . Spring- 
ing out of the unclosed door, he found Julian half- 
fainting ; for his home affections were the very main- 
springs of his life. He read the message, helped Julian 
down stairs, flung a little cold water over his face, and 
then led him to their own study, where he immediately 
began, without a word, to pack up for him such things 
as he thought he would require. 

Lillyston made all the necessary arrangements, and 
did not leave his friend until he had seen him into the 
railway carriage, and pressed his hand with a silent 
farewell. He watched the train till it was out of 
sight. 

Then first did Julian’s anguish find vent in tears. 
Passionately he longed at least to know the worst, and 
would have given anything to speed the progress of 
the train, far too slow for his impatient misery. He 
was tormented by remembering the unusually solemn 
look and tone with which his father had parted from 
him a month before, and by the presentiment which at 
that moment had flashed across him with uncontroll- 
able vividness, that they should never meet again. 
At last, at last they reached Ildown late in the even- 
ing, just as the flushed glare of crimson told the death- 
struggle of an angry sunset with the dull and heavy 
clouds. The station was a mile from the town ; and 
it was a raw, gusty, foggy evening. There was no 
conveyance at the station, . but leaving with the porter 
a hasty direction about his luggage, Julian flew along 
the road heedless of observation, reached the cliff, and 
at length stood before the rectory door. He was wet, 
hungry, and exhausted, for since morning he had tasted 
nothing, and his run had spattered him with mud from 


JULIAN HOME. 


29 


head to heel. It was too dark to judge what had 
happened from the appearance of the house, and half- 
frantic as he was with fear and eagerness, he had yet 
not dared to give a loud summons at the door, lest he 
should disturb his father’s slumber or excite his 
nerves. 

Ah! Julian, you need not restrain your impetuous 
dread from that cause now ! 

The door opened very quietly, and in reply to his 
incoherent question, the good old servant only shook 
her head and turned away to brush off with her apron 
the tears which she vainly struggled to repress. But 
the boy burst into the study where he knew that the 
rest would be, and in another moment his arm was 
round his mother’s neck, while Cyril and Violet and 
little Frank drew close and wept silently beside them 
both. But still Julian knew not or would not know 
the full truth, and at last he drew up courage to ask 
the question which had been so long trembling on his 
lips — 

“Is there no hope, mother, no hope?” 

“Don’t you know then, my boy? Your father 
is ” 

“Not dead” said Julian in a hollow voice; “O 
mother, mother, mother.” 

His head drooped on her shoulder ; the news fell on 
him like a horrible blow, and stunned as he was, with 
weariness and anxiety, all sense and life flowed from 
him for a time. 

The necessity for action and the consolation of others 
are God’s blessed remedies to lull, during the first 
intolerable moments, the poignancy of bereavement. 
Mrs. Home had to soothe her children, and to see that 
they took needful food and rest ; and she watched by 
the bedside of her younger boys till they had cried 
themselves to sleep. Then she saw Violet to bed, and 
at last sat down alone with her eldest son, who by a 
great prayerful effort aroused himself at last to a sense 
of his position. 

He took her hand in his, and said in a low whisper, 
“ Mother, let me see him.” 


30 


JULIAN HOME . 


“Not now, dearest Julian, wait till to-morrow, for 
our sakes.” 

“What was the cause of death, mother?” 

“Disease of the heart; ” and once more the widow’s 
strength seemed likely to give way. But this time it 
was Julian’s turn to whisper, “God’s will be done.” 

Next morning Mrs. Home, with Julian and Violet, 
entered the room of death. Flowers were scattered on 
the bed, and on that face, calm as marble, yet soft as 
life, the happy wondering smile had not yet even died 
away. And there Julian received from his mother a 
slip of paper on which his father’s dying hand had 
traced the last messages of undying love ; and when 
they had left him there alone, he opened and read 
these words, written with weak and wavering pen — 

“My own dearest boy, in this world we shall never 
meet again. But I die happy, Julian, for my trust is 
in God, who cares for the widow and the fatherless. 
And you, Julian, will take my place with Violet, Cyril, 
and dear Frankie — I need say nothing of a mother to 
such a son. God bless you, my own boy. Be brave, 
and honest, and pure, and God will be with you. Your 
dying father, Henry Home.” 

The last part was almost illegible, but Julian bent 
reverently over his father’s corpse, and it seemed that 
the smile brightened on those dead lips as he bowed 
his young head in prayer. 

Reader, for many reasons we must not linger there. 
But I had to tell you of that death and of those dying 
words which Julian knew by heart through life, and 
which he kept always with him as the amulet against 
temptation. He never forgot them ; and oh ! how 
often in the hours of trial did it seem as if that dying 
message was whispered in his ear, “Be brave, and 
honest, and pure, and God will be with you.” 

The concluding arrangements were soon made. The 
family left the rectory, but continued to reside at 
Ildown, a spot which they loved, and where they were 
known and loved. Mr. Home had insured his life for 


JULIAN HOME. 


31 


a sum, not large indeed, but sufficient to save them 
from absolute penury, and had besides laid by sufficient 
to continue Julian’s education. It was determined that 
he should return to Harton, and there try for the Newry 
scholarship in time. If he should be successful in get- 
ting this, there would be no further difficulty in his 
going to college, for it was expected that a wealthy aunt 
of his would assist him. His guardians, however, were 
kind enough to determine that, even in case of his 
failing to obtain the Newry, they would provide for his 
university expenses, although they did not conceal 
from him the great importance of his earnestly study- 
ing with a view to gain this pecuniary aid. Cyril was 
sent to Marlborough ; and Frank, who was but ten 
years old, remained for the present at Ildown grammar- 
school. 

After the funeral Julian returned to Harton with 
a sadder and wiser heart. Though never an idle boy, 
he had not as yet realized the necessity of throwing 
himself fully into the studies of the place, but had 
rather given the reins to his fancy, and luxuriated 
in the gorgeous day-dreams of poetry and romance. 
Henceforward he became a most earnest and diligent 
student, and day by day felt that his intellectual 
powers grew stronger and more developed by this 
healthier nourishment. At the end of that quarter he 
gained his first head-remove, and Mr. Carden rejoiced 
heartily in the success of his favorite pupil. 

“Why, Julian, you will beat us all if you go on at 
this rate,” said he, after reading over the trial verses 
which Julian asked him to criticise after the examina- 
tion. “You always showed taste, but here we have 
vigor too ; and for a wonder, you haven’t made any 
mistakes.” 

“ I’m afraid I shall be ‘ stumped ’ in the Greek 
‘Iambi,’ sir, as Mr. Clarke calls them.” 

“ Ah ! well, you must take pains. You’ve improved, 
though, since you had to translate Milton’s 

‘ Smoothing the raven down 

Of darkness till it smiled ; ’ 


32 


JULIAN HOME. 


when, you remember, I gave you a literal version of 
your ‘ Iambi,’ which meant ‘ pounding a pea-green 
fog.’ Eli?” 

u O yes,” said Julian, “I remember, too, that I ren- 
dered the ‘ moonbeams ’ by the ‘ moon’s rafters.’ ” 

“Never mind,” said Mr. Carden, laughing; “im 
prove in them as much as you have in Latin verse, and 
we shall see you Newry scholar yet.” 

A thrill of joy went through the boy’s heart as he 
heard these words. 




CHAPTER THE FOURTH. 

HOW JULIAN LOST A FORTUNE. 

“ Most like a stepdame or a dowager 
Long withering out a young man’s revenue.” 

Shakspeare. 

I must not chronicle Julian’s school life, much as I 
should have to tell about him, and strong as the tempta- 
tion is ; but another event happened during his stay at 
Harton which affected so materially his future years 
that 1 must proceed to narrate it now. 

Julian’s father had a sister much older than himself 
who many years before had married a baronet-farmer, 
Sir Thomas Vinsear of Lonstead Abbey. It was cer- 
tainly not a love match on the lady’s side, for the bar- 
onet was twenty years her senior, and his tastes in no 
respect resembled hers. But she was already of “ a 
certain age,” and despairing of a lover, accepted the 
good old country squire, and was located for the rest 
of her life as mistress of Lonstead Abbey. 

As long as he lived all was well ; Lady Vinsear, like 
a sensible wife, conformed herself to all his wishes and 
peculiarities, and won in no slight degree his gratitude 
and affection. But he did not long survive his mar- 
riage, and after a few years the lady found herself 
alone and childless in the solitary grandeur of her hus- 
band’s home. 

Her brother Henry, the Rector of Ildown, had always 
been her special favorite, and she looked to his fre- 
quent visits to enliven her loneliness. But she was 
piqued by his having married without consulting her, 
* 33 




34 


JULIAN HOME. 


and behaved so uncourteously to Mrs. Home that for a 
long time the intercourse between them was broken. 

One day, however, shortly before his death, she had 
written to announce an intended visit, and in due time 
her carriage stood before the rectory door. It so hap- 
pened that it was Julian’s holiday-time, and he was at 
home. Changed as the old lady had become by years 
and disappointment, and the ennui of an aimless widow- 
hood, little relieved by the unceasing attendance of a 
confidante, yet Lady Vinsear’s childless and withered 
heart seemed to be touched to life again when she gazed 
on her brother’s beautiful and modest boy. Courteous 
without subservience, and attentive without servility, 
Julian, by his graceful and unselfish demeanor, won 
her complete affection, and she dropped to the family 
no ambiguous hints, that, for Julian’s sake, she should 
renew her intercourse with them, and make him her 
heir. Circumstanced as he was, Mr. Home could not 
but rejoice in this determination, and the more so from 
his proud consciousness that not even the vilest de- 
tractor could charge him with having courted his rich 
sister’s favor by open or secret arts. From Julian he 
would have concealed Lady Vinsear’s intention, but 
she had herself made him tolerably aware of it, after a 
fit of violent spleen against Miss Sprong, her confidante, 
who, seeing how the wind blew, had tried to drop 
little malicious hints against the favorite nephew, until 
the old lady had cut them short by a peremptory order 
that Miss Sprong should leave the room. That little 
rebuff the lady never forgot and never forgave, and, 
under the guise of admiration, she nursed her enmity 
against the unconscious Julian until due opportunity 
should have occurred to give it vent. 

Every now and then Julian, when wearied with 
study, would be tempted to think in his secret heart 
“ What does it matter my working so hard, when I 
shall be master of Lonstead Abbey some day ? ” And 
then perhaps would follow a rather inconsistent fit of 
idleness, till Mr. Carden, or some other master, applied 
the spur again. 

“I can’t make you out, Julian,” said Lillyston ; 


JULIAN HOME. 


35 


“sometimes you grind away fora month, like — like 
beans, and then you’re as idle again for a week as the 
dog that laid his head against a wall to bark.” 

“ Well, shall I tell you, Hugh?” answered Julian, 
who had often felt that it would be a relief to put his 
friend in possession of the secret. And he told Lilly- 
ston that he was the acknowledged heir of his aunt’s 
property. 

“ O well, then,” said Lillyston, “ I don’t see why I 
should work either, seeing as how Lillyston Court will 
probably come to me some day. I say, Julian, I vote 
we both try for lag next trials. It’d save lots of 
grind.” 

All this was brought out very archly, and instantly 
recalled to Julian’s mind the many arguments which 
he had used to his friend, especially since his father’s 
death, to prove that, under any circumstances, diligence 
was a duty which secured its own reward ; indeed, he 
used to maintain that, even on selfish grounds, it was 
best, for in the long run the idlest boys, with their 
punishments and extras, got far the most work to do— 
to say nothing of the lassitude that usurps the realm 
of neglected duty, and that disgraceful ignorance which 
is the Nemesis of wasted time. 

He burst out laughing. “You have me on the hip, 
Hugh, and I give in. In proof whereof, here goes the 
novel I’m reading ; and I’ll at once set to work on my 
next set of verses ; ” whereon Julian pitched his green 
novel to the top of an inaccessible cupboard, got down 
his Elegiacs for the next day, and had no immediate 
recurrence of what Lillyston christened the “ pudding 
theory of work.” 

It was during his last year at Ilarton that Lady 
Vinsear, in consequence of one of her sudden whims, 
wrote to invite him to Lonstead, with both his brothers ; 
for she never took any notice of either Violet or Mrs. 
Home. The time she mentioned was ten days before 
the Harton holidays began. So that Frank and Cyril 
(who came back from Marlborough just in time) had to 
go alone, rather to their disgust; Julian, however, 
promising to join them directly after he returned from 


36 


JULIAN HOME. 


school. The wilful old lady, urged on by the confidante, 
took considerable umbrage at this, and wrote that “she 
was quite sure the Doctor would not have put any 
obstacles in the way of Julian’s coming had he been 
informed of her wishes. And as for trials (the Harton 
word for examination), which Julian had pleaded in 
excuse, he had better take care that, in attending to 
the imaginary trials of Harton, he didn’t increase his 
own real trials.” 

This sentence made Julian laugh immoderately, 
both from his aunt’s notion of the universal autocracy 
of her will, and from her obvious bewilderment at the 
technical word “Trials,” which had betrayed her un- 
consciously into a pun, which of all things she abhorred. 
However, he wrote back politely — explained what he 
meant by “ Trials' ” — begged to be excused for a neglect 
of her wishes, which was inevitable — and reiterated 
his promise of joining his brothers, as early as was 
feasible, under her hospitable roof. 

It was not without inward misgiving that Cyril and 
Frank found themselves deposited in the hall of their 
glum old aunt’s large and lonely house, the very size 
and emptiness of which had tended not a little to in- 
crease the poor lady’s vapors. However, they were 
naturally graceful and well-bred, so that in spite of 
the patronizing empire assumed over them by the 
vulgar and half-educated Miss Sprong — which Cyril es- 
pecially w r as very much inclined to resent — the first 
day or two passed by with tolerable equanimity. 

But this dull routine soon proved unendurable to the 
two lively boys. They found it impossible to sit still 
the whole evening, looking over sacred prints ; and 
this was the only amusement which Miss Sprong sug- 
gested to Lady Vinsear for them. Of late the Dow- 
ager had taken what she considered to be a religious 
turn ; but unhappily the supposed religion was as dif- 
ferent from real piety as light from darkness, and 
consisted mainly in making herself and all around 
her miserable by a semi-ascetic puritanism of obser- 
vances, and a style of conversation fit to drive her little 
nephews into a iunatic asylum. 


JULIAN NOME. 


37 


Though they both felt a species of terror at their 
ungracious aunt and the ever-detonating Miss Sprong, 
the long-pent spirit of fun at times grew too strong 
in them, and they would call down sharp rebukes 
by romping in the drawing-room, so as to disturb the 
two ladies while they read to each other, for hours to- 
gether, the charming treatises of their favorite divine. 

The boys were seated on two stools, in the silence 
of despair, and at last Cyril, who had been twirling 
his thumbs for half an hour, and listening to a dis- 
sertation on Armageddon, gave a yawn so portentous 
and prolonged that Frank suddenly exploded in a little 
burst of laughter, which was at once checked, when 
Miss Sprong observed — 

‘‘I think it would be profitable if your ladyship” — 
Miss Sprong never omitted the title — “ would set your 
nephews some of Watts’ hymns to learn.” 

The nephews protested with one voice and much re- 
bellion, but at last their irate aunt quenched the un- 
seemly levity, and they were fairly set to work at Dr. 
Watts — Frank getting for his share “The little busy 
bee.” But instead of learning it, they got together, 
and Cyril began drawing pictures of Miss Sprong, 
whereby Frank was kept in fits of laughter, and when 
called up to say his hymn knew nothing at all about 
it. Cyril sat by him, and when Frank had exhausted 
his stock of acquirements by saying, in a tone of dis- 
gust — 

“ How doth the little busy bee ” 

Cyril suggested — 

“ Delight to bark and bite.” 

“ O yes ! 

“ How doth the little busy bee 
Delight to bark and bite 

How does it go on, Cyril ?” said Frank. 

“ To gather honey all the day, 

And eat it all the night,” 

whispered the audacious brother, conjuring into me- 
mory the school-boy version of that celebrated poem. 


38 


JULIAN HOME. 


Frank, who was far too much engrossed in his own 
difficulties to think of what he was saying, artlessly 
repeated the words, and opened his large eyes in 
amazement when he was greeted by a shout of laughter 
from Cyril, and a little shriek of indignation from Miss 
Sprong, which combined sounds startled Lady Vinsear 
from the doze into which she had fallen, and ended in 
the summary ejectment of the young offenders. 

The next day, to their own great relief and delight, 
they were sent home in disgrace; and knowing that 
their mother would not be angry with them for a piece 
of childish gaiety under such trying circumstances, 
they were surprised and pained to see how grave she 
and Violet looked when they told their story. But 
Mrs. Home’s thoughts had reverted to Julian, and she 
knew Miss Sprong too well not to be aware that she 
had designs on Lady Vinsear’s property, and would 
excite against Julian any ill-will she could. 

That her fears were not unfounded was proved by 
the fact that, in the middle of trial- week, Julian re- 
ceived an altogether intolerable epistle from Miss 
Sprong, written, she said, “ at the express request and 
dictation of his esteemed aunt,” calling him to account 
for this little incident in a way that (to use Lillyston’s 
expression) instantly “ put him on his hind legs.” He 
read a part of this letter to Lillyston ; and, with his 
own comments, it ran thus: — 

“Lady Vinsear desires me to say ” (Hem ! I doubt 
that very much) “ that the rudeness of those two little 
boys, to say nothing of their great immorality and im- 
piety ” (I say, that’s coming it rather strong), “is such 
as to reflect great discredit on the influences to which 
they have been lately ” 

“ By Jove ! this is too bad,” said Julian, passionately ; 
“when she adds inuendoes against my mother to her 
other malice, I won’t stand it;” and, without reading 
farther, he tossed the letter into the fire, watching with 
vindictive eyes its complete consumption — 

“ There goes the squire — revered, illustrious spark I 
And there — no less illustrious — goes the clerk ! ” 


JULIAN HOME. 


39 


he said, as he watched the little red streams flickering 
out of the black paper ashes. “And now for the ans- 
wer! Bother the woman for plaguing me (for 1 know 
it’s none of my aunt’s handiwork) in the middle of 
trial-week.” 

“ I say, Julian, don’t be too fiery in your answer, 
you know, for you really ought to appease the poor olcl 
lady. Only think of that impudent little brother of 
yours ! I must make the young rogue’s acquaintance 
some day.” 

But Julian had seized a sheet of note-paper, and 
wrote to his aunt, not condescending to notice even by 
a message her obnoxious amanuensis : — 

“My Dear Aunt — I cannot believe that the letter 
I received to-day really emanated from you, at least 
not in the language in which it was couched. 

“I have neither time nor inclination (‘ Hoity, toity, 
how grand we are ! ’) to attend to the foolish trifle to 
which your amanuensis (‘meaning me!’ screamed the 
irrepressible Sprong) alludes ; but I am quite sure, 
that, on reflection, you will not be inclined to judge 
too hardly a mere piece of fun and thoughtless live- 
liness ; for that Frankie meant to be rude I don’t for a 
moment believe. I shall only add, that if I were not 
convinced that you can never have sanctioned the 
expressions which the lady (Julian had first written 
‘person,’ but altered it afterwards) who wrote for you 
presumed to apply to my brothers, and above all, to 
my mother, I should have good reason to be offended; 
but feeling sure that they are not attributable to you, I 
pass them over with indifference. I* am obliged to 
write in great haste, so here I must conclude. 

“Believe me, my dear Aunt, your affectionate 
nephew, Julian Home.” 

Lady Vinsear was secretly pleased with the spirit 
which this letter showed, and was not sorry for the 
snubbing which it gave to her lady-companion ; but 
she determined to exercise a little tyranny, and fan- 
cied that Julian would be too much frightened to re- 


40 


JULIAN HOME. 


sent it. Accustomed to the legacy-hunting spirit of 
many parasites, the old lady thought that Julian would 
be like the rest, and hoped to enjoy the sight of him 
reduced to submission and obedience, in the prospect 
of future advantage ; not that she would exult in his 
humiliation, but she was glad of any pretext to bring 
the noble boy before her as a suppliant for her favor. 
Accordingly, setting aside her first and better impulses, 
she wrote back a sharp reply, abusing Cyril and Frank 
in round and severe terms, and adding some bitter 
inuendoes about the poverty of the family, and their 
supposed expectations at her decease. Miss Sprong 
lent all the venom of her malicious ingenuity to this 
precious performance, which fortunately did not reach 
Julian until trials* were nearly over. Tired with ex- 
citement and hard work, the boy could ill endure these 
galling allusions, and wrote back a short and fiery 
reply 

“My dear Aunt — If any one has persuaded you 
that I am eager to purchase your good-will at any 
sacrifice, and that, in consideration of ‘ supposed ad- 
vantages ’ hereafter to be derived from you, I shall be 
willing to endure unkindly language or groundless in- 
sinuations about my other relatives — then they have 
very seriously misled you as to my true character. 
This is really the only reply of which your letter ad- 
mits. I shall always be ready, as in duty bound, to 
bestow on you such respect and affection as your rela- 
lationship demands and your own kindness may elicit, 
but I would scorn to win your favor at the expense of 
a subservience at once ungenerous and unjust. 

“ Believe me to remain your affectionate nephew, 

“Julian Home.” 

This letter decided the matter. Lady Vinsear wrote 
back, that as he obviously cared nothing about her, 
and did not not even treat her with ordinary defer- 
ence, she had that day altered her will. Poor old lady ! 
Julian’s angry letter cost her many a pang; and that 
night, as she sat in her bedroom by her lonely hearth, 


JULIAN HOME. 


41 


and thought over her dead brother and this gallant 
high-souled boy of his, the tears coursed each other 
down her furrowed cheeks, and she could get no rest. 
At last she had taken her desk, and, with trembling 
hands, written — 

“Dearest Julian — Forgive an old woman’s whim, 
and come to me and comfort my old age. All I have is 
yours, Julian ; and I love you, though I wrote to you 
so bitterly. — Your loving aunt, 

“ Caroline Vinsear.” 

But when morning came, Sprong resumed her ascend- 
ancy, and by raking up and blowing the cooled embers 
of her patroness’ wrath, succeeded once more in fan- 
ning them to the old red heat, after which she poured 
vinegar upon them, and they exploded in the pungent 
fumes of the note which told our hero that he was not 
to hope for the future to be one day owner of a hand- 
some fortune. 

Of course, at first he was a little downcast ; and in 
talking to Lillyston, compared himself to Gauthier sans 
avoir, and “ Wilfred the disinherited.” 

“Never mind, Julian ; it matters very little to you ,” 
said Lillyston proudly. 

“Anyhow I must have no more fits of idleness,” 
answered Julian. 

And indeed the only pain it caused him arose from 
the now necessary decision that he must go to St. 
Werner’s College as a sizar , or not at all. But for all 
that he went home with a light heart, and had once 
more gained the proud distinction of head-remove — one 
for which, at that time, I very much doubt whether he 
would have exchanged the prospect of a rich inherit- 
ance. 

And the misfortune proved an advantage to Cyril 
too, as we shall see. 

“ So here’s the little rogue who has lost me three 
thousand a year,” said Julian laughingly, when he got 
home, and took Cyril on his knee by the fireside after 
dinner. The next moment he was very sorry he had 


42 


JULIAN HOME. 


said it, for Cyril hung his head, and seemed quite dis- 
concerted ; but his brother laughed away his sorrow, 
as he thought, and no further allusion to the subject 
was made. 

But that night, as Julian looked into his brother’s 
bedroom before he went to bed, he found Cyril crying, 
and his pillow wet with tears. 

“ Cyril, what’s the matter, my boy ? — you’re not ill, 
are you ? ” 

Cyril sat up, his eyes still swimming, and threw his 
arms round his brother’s neck. “ I’ve ruined you, 
Julian,” he said. 

“ My dear child, what nonsense! Nay, my foolish 
little fellow,” answered Julian, “this is really a mis- 
take of yours. Aunt Vinsear was angry with me for 
my letters, — not with you. Don’t cry so, Cyril, for I 
really don’t care a rush about it ; but I shall care if it 
vexes you. But shall I tell you why you ought to 
know of it, Cyril ? ” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Because, my boy, it affects you too. You know, 
Cyril, that we are very poor now. Well, you see we 
shall have to support ourselves hereafter, and mother, 
and Violet depend on us; so you must work hard, 
Cyril, will you? and don’t be idle at Marlborough, as 
I’m afraid you have been. Eh, my boy?” 

The boy promised faithfully, and performed the 
promise well in after-days ; but that night Julian did 
not leave him until he was fast asleep. 

We shall tell only one more scene of Julian’s Harton 
life, and that very briefly. 

It is a glorious summer afternoon ; four o’clock bell 
is just over, and it is expected that in a few minutes 
the Examiner (an old Hartonian and senior classic) 
will read out the list which shall give the result of 
many weeks’ hard work. The Newry scholarship is to 
be announced at the same time : Bruce and Home are 
the favorite names. 

A crowd of boys throng round the steps, but Julian 
is not among them ; he is leaning over the rails of the 
churchyard, under the elm-trees by Peachey’s tomb, 


JULIAN HOME. 


43 


filled with a trembling and almost sickening anxiety, 
Bruce, confident of victory, is playing racquets just 
below the schoolyard. 

The Examiner suddenly appears from the speech- 
room door. There is a breathless silence while he reads 
the list, and then announces, in an emphatic voice — 

“ The Newry scholarship is adjudged to Julian 
Home ! ” 

Off darts Lillyston, bounds up the hill into the 
churchyard, and has informed the happy Julian of his 
good fortune long before the “three cheers for the 
Examiner,” and “ three cheers for Home,” have died 
away. 



CHAPTER THE FIFTH. 

saint werner’s. 

“ So soon the boy, a youth, the youth a man, 

Eager to run the race his fathers ran.” 

Rogers’ Human Life. 

The last day at Harton came ; the last chapel-service 
in that fair school fabric ; the last- sermon, “ Arise, let 
us go hence ; ” the last look at the churchyard and the 
fourth-form room ; the last “ Speecher,” and delivering 
up of the monitors’ keys ; the last farewells to Mr. 
Carden and the other masters, and the Doctor, and 
their schoolfellows and fags ; and then with swelling 
hearts Julian and Lillyston got into the special train, 
thronged with its laughing and noisy passengers, and 
during the twenty minutes which were occupied by 
their transit to London, were filled with the melan- 
choly thought that the days of boyhood were over for 
ever. 

“Good-bye Lillyston,” said Julian — 

“ To-morrow, to fresh fields and pastures new.” 

“ Good-bye, Julian. We shall meet next at St. Wer- 
ner’s.” 

“ Mind you write meanwhile.” 

“ All right. You shall hear in a week— Good-bye.” 
And Lillyston nodded from the cab window his last 
farewell to Julian Home, the Harton boy. 

But if there were partings, what glorious meetings 
there were too, during those twenty-four hours ! Ah ! 
they must be felt, not written of : but I am sure that 
no family felt a keener joy that day than Julian’s 
44 



JULIAN HOME. 


45 


mother, and sister, and brothers, when they saw him 
again, and learnt with pride that he had won a scholar- 
ship of £100 a year ; even Will and Mary, the faithful 
servants, seemed, when they heard it, to look up to 
their young master with even more honor than before. 

Bruce spent the first part of his holidays in shooting, 
and the latter weeks in all the gaieties of a wealthy 
London family, lie was naturally self-indulgent, and 
as no one urged him to make good use of his time, he 
devoted it to every possible amusement which riches 
could procure. Both he and his parents had a bound- 
less belief in bis natural abilities, and these, he thought, 
would be quite sufficient to gain him such honors as 
should be a graceful addition to the public reputation 
which he intended to win. A week or two before the 
Camford term commenced he engaged some splendid 
lodgings, the most expensive which he heard of, and, 
turning out the furniture which was usually let with 
them, gave an almost unlimited order to a fashionable 
upholsterer to see them fitted out with due luxury and 
taste. When he came up as a freshman, which he de- 
ferred doing until the last possible moment, he was 
himself amazed to see how literally his orders had 
been obeyed. The rooms were refulgent with splendor : 
glossy tables, velvet-cushioned chairs, Turkey carpets, 
rich curtains, and an abundance of mirrors, made them, 
as the tradesman remarked, “ fit for a lord ; ” and 
Bruce took possession, with no little pride and self- 
satisfaction at finding himself his own master in so 
brilliant an abode. 

Meanwhile, the holidays had passed by with Julian 
very differently, but very happily. Without tiring 
himself, or harassing his attention by study, he made 
a rule of devoting to work some portion at least of 
every day. Long strolls with his mother and sister 
in the bright summer evenings, bathes and boating ex- 
cursions with Cyril and Frank, and happy lonely ram- 
bles on the beach, kept him in health and spirits, and 
he looked forward with eager ambition to the arena 
which he was so soon to enter. 

“ The Iiarton boys have gone back by this time. 


46 


JULIAN HOME. 


haven’t they?” asked Violet, as she sat with her 
mother and brother on the lawn one afternoon. “ Don’t 
you wish you were there again with them, Julian ?” 

“ No,” said Julian, 44 1 wouldn’t exchange ‘ St. Wer- 
ner’s man,’ even for 4 Harton boy.’ ” 

44 Mow soon shall you have to go up to St. Wer- 
ner’s?” said Mrs. Home. 

44 On October 15th ; in about a fortnight’s time. I 
mean to go up a day or two beforehand to get settled. 
You and Violet must come with me, mother.” 

44 But is that usual ? won’t you get laughed at as 
though you were coming up under female escort?” 
asked Violet. 

44 Pooh ! you don’t suppose I care for that,” said 
Julian, 44 even supposing it were likely to be true ; be- 
sides ” He said no more, but his proud look at 

his sister’s face seemed to imply that he expected rather 
to be envied than laughed at. 

Accordingly, they went up together, and as the 
train drew nearer and nearer to Camford, all three grew 
silent and thoughtful. They were rightly conscious 
that on the years to be spent in college life depended 
no small part of Julian’s future happiness and prosperity. 
Three years at least would be spent there; years 
wealthy with all blessing, or prolific of evil and regret. 

It was night when they arrived, and in the dimly- 
lighted streets there was not enough visible to gratify 
Julian’s eager curiosity. The omnibus was crowded 
with undergraduates, who were chiefly freshmen, but 
apparently anxious to seem very much at home. At 
the station the piles of luggage seemed interminable, 
and Mrs. Home and Violet were not sorry to escape 
from the unusual confusion to the quiet of their hotel. 

Next morning, directly after an impatient breakfast, 
Julian started to call on his tutor. 

44 Which is the way to St. Werner’s College?” he 
asked of the waiter. 

“Straight along, sir,” was the reply, and off he 
started down King’s Parade. In his hurry to make the 
first acquaintance with his new college, Julian hardly 
stopped to admire the smooth green quadrangle and 


JULIAN HOME . 


47 


lofty turrets of King Henry’s College, or St. Mary’s, 
or the Senate House and Library, but strode on to the 
gate of St. Werner’s. Entering, he gazed eagerly at 
the famous great court, with its chapel, hall, fountain 
and Master’s lodge ; and then made his way through 
the cloisters of Warwick’s Court to his tutor’s rooms. 

On entering, he found himself in a room luxuriously 
furnished and full of books. In a large arm-chair 
before the fire sat a clergyman, whom Julian at once 
conjectured to be Mr. Grayson, the tutor on whose 
“ side ” he was entered. He was a tall, grave-looking 
man, of about forty, and rose to greet his pupil with a 
dignified stare. 

“ How do you do, Mr. ? I did not quite catch 

the name.” 

“ Home, sir,” said Julian, advancing to shake hands 
in a cordial and confiding manner ; but the tutor con- 
tented himself with a very cold shake, and seemed at a 
loss how to proceed. 

Julian was burning with curiosity and eagerness. 
He longed to ask a hundred questions ; at such a 
moment — a moment when he first felt how completely 
he had passed over the boundary which divides boyhood 
from manhood, he yearned for a word of advice, of 
encouragement, of sympathy. He expected, at least, 
something which should resemble a welcome, or a 
direction what to do. Nothing of the kind, however, 
came. While Julian was awaiting some remark, the 
tutor shuffled, hemmed, and looked ill at ease, as though 
at a loss how to begin the conversation. 

At last Julian, in despair, asked, “ Whereabouts are 
my rooms, sir ? ” 

“ Oh, the porter will show you ; you’ll find no diffi- 
culty about them,” said the tutor. 

“ Have you anything farther to ask me, Mr. Home ? ” 
he inquired, after another little pause. 

“Nothing whatever, sir,” said Julian, a little indig- 
nantly, for he began to feel much like what a volcano 
may be supposed to do when its crater is filled with 
snow. “ Have you anything to tell me, sir ? ” 

“No, Mr. Home. I hope you’ll— that is— I hope 


48 


JULIAN HOME. 


— good morning,” he said, as Julian, to relieve him 
from an unprofitable commonplace, backed towards the 
door. 

“Humph,” thought Julian. “What an icicle; not 
much good to be got out of that quarter. An intoler- 
ably cold reception. It’s odd, too, for the man must 
have heard all about me from Mr. Carden.” 

As we shall have very little to do with Mr. Gray- 
son, we may here allow him a cordial word of apology. 
What was to Julian the commencement of an epoch 
was, be it remembered, to the tutor a commonplace 
and almost everyday event. The whole of that week 
he had been occupied in receiving visits from “the 
early fathers,” who came up in charge of their sons, 
and all of whom seemed to expect that he would show 
the liveliest and tenderest interest in their respective 
prodigies. Other freshmen had visited him unaccom- 
panied, and some of them seemed rather inclined to 
patronize him than otherwise. He was a shy man, 
and always had a painful suspicion at heart that people 
were laughing at him. Having lived the life of a 
student, he had never acquired the polished ease of a 
man of the world, and had a nervous dread of strangers. 
His manners were but an icy shield of self-defence 
against ridicule, and they suited his somewhat sensitive 
dignity. He persuaded himself, too, that the “ men ” 
on his side were “ men ” in years and discretion, as 
well as name, and that they must stand or fall unaided, 
since the years of boyish discipline and school constraint 
were gone by. It never occurred to him that a word 
spoken in due season might be of incalculable benefit 
to many of his charge. Being a man of slow sensi- 
bilities, he could not sympathize with the enthusiastic 
temperament of youths like Julian, nor did he ever 
single out one of his pupils either for partiality or dis- 
like. Yet he was thoroughly kind-hearted, and many 
remembered his good deeds with generous gratitude. 
Nor was he wholly wrong in his theory that a tutor 
often does as much harm by meddling interference as 
he does by distance and neglect. 

When a boy goes to college, eager, quick, inn, 


JULIAN HOME. 


49 


petuous, rejoicing as a giant to run his course, he is 
generally tilled with noble resolutions and elevating 
thoughts. There is a touch of flame and of romance 
in his disposition; he feels himself to be the member 
of a brotherhood, and longs to be a distinguished and 
worthy one; he is anxious for all that is grand and 
right, and yearns for a little sympathy to support his 
determination and enliven his hopes. Some there 
may be so dull and sensual, so swallowed up in selfish- 
ness and conceit, so chill to every generous sentiment, 
and callous to every stirring impulse, that they experi- 
ence none of this ; their sole aim is, on the one hand, 
to succeed, or on the other, to amuse and gratify them- 
selves, to cultivate all their animal propensities, and 
drown in the mud-honey of premature independence 
the last relics of their childish aspirations. With men 
like this, to dress showily, to drive tandem and give 
champagne breakfasts, comes as a matter of course; 
while their supremest delight is to wander back to their 
old school, in “ fawn-colored dittos,” and with a cigar 
in their mouths, to show their superiority to all sense 
of decency and good taste. But these are the rare 
exceptions. However much they may conceal their 
own emotions, however dead, and cynical, and contemp- 
tible they may grow in after-days, there are few men 
of ordinary uprightness who do not feel a thrill of 
genuine enthusiasm when they first enter the walls of 
their college, and who will not own it without a blush. 

How Julian was an enthusiast by nature and tem- 
perament; all the sentiments which we have been 
describing he felt with more than ordinary intensity. 
It gave a grandeur to his hopes, and a distinct sense of 
ennobling pleasure, to remember that he was treading 
the courts which generations of the good and wise had 
trodden before him, and holding in his hand tha torch 
which they had handed down to him. Their memory 
still lingered there, and he trusted that his name too 
might in after-days be not wholly unremembered. At 
least he would strive, with a godlike energ}% to fail in 
no duty, and to leave no effort unfulfilled. If he viewed 
his coming life too much in its poetical aspect, at least 
4 


50 


JULIAN HOME. 


his glowing aspirations and golden dreams were tem- 
pered with a deep humility and a childlike faith. 

After fuming a little at the cool reception which his 
tutor had given him, he walked up and down the court, 
thinking of his position and his intentions — of the past, 
the present, and the future — until proud tears glistened 
in his eyes. It was clear to him that now he would 
have to stand alone amid life’s trials, and alone face 
life’s temptations. And he was ready for the struggle. 
With God’s help he would not miss the meaning of his 
life, hut take the tide of opportunity while it was at 
the flood. 

Before rejoining his mother, he determined to call 
on one of the junior Fellows, the only one with whom 
he had any acquaintance, the Rev. N. Admer. He 
only knew him from a casual introduction; but Mr. 
Admer had asked him to call on his arrival at St. 
Werner’s, and Julian hoped both to get some informa- 
tion from him to dissipate the painful feeling of strange- 
ness and novelty, and also partially to do away with 
the effect of Mr. Grayson’s coldness. 

Although it was now past ten in the morning,* he 
found Mr. Admer only just beginning breakfast, and 
looking tired and lazy. He was received with a patron- 
izing and supercilious tone, and the Fellow not only 
went on with his breakfast, but occasionally glanced 
at a newspaper while he talked. Not that Mr. Admer 
at all meant to be unkind or rude, but he hated enthu- 
siasm in every shape ; he did not believe in it, and it 
wearied him : hence freshmen during their first few 
days were his profound abhorrence. 

After a few commonplace remarks, Julian ventured 
on a question or two as to the purchases which he 
would immediately require, the hours of lecture and 
hall, and the thousand-and-one trifles of which a new- 
comer is necessarily ignorant. Mr. Admer seemed to 
think this a great bore, and answered languidly 
enough, advising Julian not to be “more fresh” than 
he could help. It requires very small self-denial to 
make a person at home by supplying him with a little 
information ; but small as the effort would have been, 


JULIAN HOME. 


51 


it was greater than the Rev. N. Admer could afford to 
make, and his answers were so little encouraging that 
Julian, making ample allowance for the listless condi- 
tion of the young Fellow, relapsed into silence. 

“ And what do you think of St. Werner’s?” asked 
Mr. Admer, taking the initiative, with a yawn. 

Julian’s face lighted up. “Think of it! I feel un- 
commonly proud already of being a St. Werner’s man.” 

“Genius loci, and all that sort of thing, eh?” 

The sneering way in which this was said left room 
for no reply, so Mr. Admer continued — 

“Ah! you’ll soon find all that sort of twaddle wear 
off.” 

“ I hope not,” said Julian. 

“Of course 5^011 intend to be senior classic, or senior 
wrangler, or something of that sort ? ” 

“I expect simply nothing ; but if I were inclined to 
soar, one might have a still higher ambition than that.” 

“Oh, I see; an embryo Newton, — all that sort of 
thing.” 

“I didn’t mean quite ‘all that sort of thing,’ since 
you seem fond of the phrase,” said Julian ; “but really 
I think my aspirations, whatever they are, would only 
tire you. Good-morning.” 

“ Good-morning,” said Mr. Admer, nodding. “We 
don’t shake hands up here. I shall come and call on 
you soon.” 

“The later the better,” thought Julian, as he de- 
scended the narrow stairs. “Good heavens! is that a 
fair specimen of a don, I wonder. If so, I shall cer- 
tainly confine my acquaintance to the undergradu- 
ates.” 

No, Julian, not a fair specimen of a don altogether, 
but in some of his aspects a fair specimen of a certain 
class of university men who profess to admire nothing, 
hope for nothing, love nothing ; who think warmth of 
heart a folly, and sentiment a crime ; who would not 
display an interest in anything more important than a 
boat-race or a game of bowls, to save their lives ; who 
are very fond of the phrase, “ all that sort of nonsense,” 
to express everything that rises above the dead level 


52 


JULIAN HOME. 


of tlieir own dead mediocrity in intelligence and life. 
If you would not grovel in spirit ; if you would not lose 
every tear that sparkles, and every word that burns ; 
if you would not ossify the very power of passion ; 
if you would not turn your soul into a mass of shape- 
less lead, avoid those despicable cynics, who never 
leave their discussion of the merits of beer, or the 
powers of stroke-oars, unless it be to carp at acknowl- 
edged eminence, and jeer at genuine emotion. IIow 
often in such company have I seen men relapse into 
stupid silence because, if they ventured on any expres- 
sion of lively interest, one of the throng, amid the scorn- 
ful indifference of the rest, would give the only ac- 
knowledgment of his remark by taking the pipe out 
of his mouth to give vent to a low guttural laugh. 

After this it was lucky for Julian that he had 
brought his mother and sister with him, and that a 
moment after leaving Mr. Admer he caught sight of 
Hugh Lillyston. With a joyful expression of surprise 
they grasped each other’s hands, and interchanged so 
friendly a greeting that Julian in an instant had scat- 
tered to the winds the gloomy impression which was 
beginning to creep over him. 

“ How long have you been here, Hugh ? ” 

“ I came yesterday. Have you seen your rooms yet ? ” 

“ No ; I am just going to look for them.” 

“ Well, come along; I know where they are.” 

“ But stop,” said Julian, “ I must go to the Eagle first 
for my people. They’ll be expecting me.” 

“Really. So Mrs. Home’s here?” asked Lillyston. 

“ Yes, and my sister. If you’ve nothing to do, come 
and be introduced.” 

“How immensely jolly ! I wish my mother and 
sister had taken the trouble to come with me, I know.” 

They went to the hotel, and Lillyston was able to 
gratify the curiosity he had long felt to see his friend's 
relations. 

“ Whom do you think I’ve brought back with me, 
mother? guess,” said Julian, as he entered the room 
beaming with pleasure. “Here, Hugh, come along. 
My mother — my sister — Mr. Lillyston.” 


JULIAN HOME. 


53 


“What! is this the Mr. Lillyston of whom we’ve 
heard so much ? ” asked Mrs. Home, with a cordial 
shake of the hand, while Violet looked up with a quick 
glance of curiosity and pleasure. 

“No other,” said Hugh, laughing; “and really I 
feel as if I were an old friend already.” 

“ You are so, I assure you,” said Mrs. Home, “and I 
hope we shall often meet now.” Lillyston hoped the 
same as he looked at Violet. 

It was arranged that they should all four go at once 
to Julian’s rooms, and help in the grand operation of 
unpacking. The rooms were very pleasant, attics in 
the great court, looking out on the Fellows’ bowling- 
green, and the river flowing beyond it. The furniture, 
most of which Julian was going to take fron the previous 
possessor, was neat and comfortable, and when the 
book-shelves began to glitter with his Harton prizes 
and gift-books, Julian was delighted beyond measure 
with the appearance of his new home. 

For some hours the unpacking continued vigorously, 
only interrupted by an excursion for lunch to the hotel, 
since Julian had as yet purchased no plates and re- 
ceived no commons. 

On their return they found an old lady in the room — 
“ A charred and wrinkled piece of womanhood ; ” 

who, in a voice like the grating of a blunt saw, in- 
formed Julian, that she was to be his bed-maker, and 
asked him whether he intended “ to tea ” in his rooms 
that evening. (The verb “ to tea ” is the property of 
bed-makers, and, with beautiful elasticity, it even ad- 
mits of a perfect tense — as “ have you tea’d ? ”) 

“By all means,” said Julian; “lay the table for 
four this evening at eight o’clock, and get me some 
bread and butter. You’ll stay, Hugh, won’t you?” 

“I should like to, very much. But won’t it be 

your last evening with your mother and Miss Home?” 

“Yes; but never mind that.” 

Lillyston shook his head, and bidding the ladies a 
warm good-bye, left them to enjoy with Julian his 
first quiet evening in St. Werner’s, Camford. 


54 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ I must hang my pictures before you go, Violet. I 
shall want your advice.” 

“ Well, let me see,” said Violet. “The water-color 
likenesses of Cyril and Frankie ought to go here, one 
on each side of Mr. Vere ; at least, I suppose you mean 
to put Mr. Vere in the place of honor ?” 

“Oh, certainly,” said Julian ; “every time I look on 
that noble face, so full of strength and love, and so 
marked with those ‘ divine hieroglyphics of sorrow,’ I 
shall learn fresh lessons of endurance and wisdom.” 

“ People will certainly call you a heretic if you do,” 
laughed Violet. 

“People!” said Julian scornfully — 

“‘Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise ; ’ 

Let them yelp.” 

Mi 1 . Vere was an eminent clergyman, who had been 
an intimate friend of Mr. Home before his death. 
Julian had only heard him preach, and met him occa- 
sionally ; but lie had read some of his works, and 
had received from him so much sympathizing kindness 
and intellectual aid, that he regarded him with a love 
and reverence little short of devotion — as a man dis- 
tinguished above all others for his gentleness, his elo- 
quence, his honesty, his learning, and his love. This 
likeness had belonged to Mr. Home, and Julian had 
asked leave to carry it with him whenever he should 
go to the university. 

“Yes,” said he, “the place of honor for Mr. Vere. 
But where shall I put the Fra Angelico?” 

“ Hear old Beato,” said Violet; “ put him opposite 
the door, that his ‘dream of fair colors’ may attract 
the eyes of every one who enters the room.” 

“ Yes ; I do think this would touch even the soul of 
a bed-maker or a gyp,” said Julian. 

So they hung it, in a good light, directly facing the 
door. It was a chromo-lithograph of Angelico’s Frank- 
fort picture, and was very pleasant to look at as a mere 
effect of color from the predominance of blue and 
gold. It had always been a favorite with Julian ; it 
could not but be a favorite with any man of pure taste 


JULIAN HOME. 


55 


or refined sentiments. Exactly in the centre, under 
a baldaccino, with a roof of blue and gold, sits the 
Virgin, her tresses hidden, but her fair, holy, tender 
face visible under the graceful and exquisitely symme- 
trical folds of her falling robe of pale blue, which is 
edged with a thin golden broidery, and clasped by a 
gem over her bosom. In her arms is the Holy Child, 
the figure infantine with the first flaxen hair, but the 
face full of mystery and love. On either side, round 
the steps of the throne, is a crown of quiring angels, 
six on either side, each corresponding to each, all with 
their glorious faces turned towards the Virgin and 
Child, each in a different attitude of awe and worship, 
with white hands uplifted and intertwined, and lam- 
bent flames over their foreheads, symbolizing the fer- 
vor of love, and shedding a roseate glow over their 
star-like nimbuses and waving curls. Each of their 
glories is golden, and pierced with small flower-like 
dots, except that of the Infant Saviour, whose golden 
halo is broken by the red lines of a cross. The whole 
is on a golden ground, which admirably throws out 
the radiant, and mingled colors of the dove-like angelic 
wings. No one could look thoughtfully at the picture 
without a feeling of deep devotion, and without a rev- 
erence for the great and holy painter who painted only 
for God’s glory, who refused all praise as due only to 
the subjects which he chose, and who rightly attrib- 
uted to inspiration his power of seeing and of repre- 
senting the spiritual beauty of these young, unfading, 
seraphic faces that reflect for ever the emerald of the 
rainbow and the sunlight of the throne. 

“ The Ribera will be a capital pendant to the Fra 
Angelico; won’t it, Vi?” said Julian, driving a nail 
into the wall on the other side of the window. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Home; “there is something sug- 
gestive in the face and attitude of the bienheurense 
jiecheresse” The picture — a fine engraving of Spagno- 
letto’s chef cVoeuvre — represented St. Mary of Egypt 
kneeling in an attitude of rapt devotion beside her own 
open grave, while over her fair shoulders, and rippling 
down to her bare feet, stream the long dishevelled 


56 


JULIAN HOME. 


tresses of her dark hair, touched into a golden gleam 
where the light falls on it, and veiling her whole form 
in its soft drapery, while an angel clothes her in the 
pure raiment, bathed in the blood 

“ Which hath this might — 

That, being red, it dyes red soules to white.” 

cc And where shall we hang this?” said Julian, tak- 
ing up a photograph of Van Dyck’s great painting of 
Jacob’s Dream. The Hebrew boy is sleeping on the 
ground, and his long, dark curls, falling off his fore- 
head, mingle with the rich foliage of the surrounding 
plants, fanned by the waving of mysterious wings. 
A cherub is lightly raising the embroidered cap that 
partially shades his face ; and at his feet, blessing him 
with uplifted hand, stands a majestic angel, on whose 
flowing robes of white gleams a celestial radiance from 
the vista, alight with heavenly faces, that opens over 
his head. A happy and holy slumber seems to breathe 
from the lad’s countenance, and yet you can tell that 
the light of dreams has dawned under his “ closed eye- 
lids,” and that the inward eye has caught full sight of 
that Beatific Epiphany. 

“We must hang this in your bedroom, Julian,” said 
Mrs. Home. “ I shall love to think of you lying under 
the outstretched hand of this heavenly watcher. 

So they hung it there, and the task was over, and 
they spent a happy, happy evening together. Next 
morning Julian accompanied them to the train, and 
walked back to the matriculation examination. 




CHAPTER THE SIXTH. 

RENCONTRES. 

“ A boy — no better — with his rosy cheeks 
Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, 

And conscious step of purity and pride.” 

Wordsworth’s Prelude. 

A public school man is by no means lonely when he 
first enters the university. He finds many of his old 
school-fellows accompanying him, and many who have 
gone up before him, and he feels united to them all by 
a bond of fellowship which at once creates for him a 
circle of friends. Had Julian merely kept up his Har- 
ton acquaintances, he would have known as many 
Camford men as were at all necessary for the purposes 
of society. 

But although with most or all of the Hartonians 
Julian remained on pleasant and friendly terms, there 
were others whom he saw quite as much, and whose 
society he enjoyed all the more thoroughly because 
their previous associations and experiences were dif- 
ferent from his own. And on looking back in after- 
times, what a delight it was to remember the noble 
hearts which, during those years of college life, had 
always beaten in unison w r ith his own. Few enjoy- 
ments were more keen than that social equality and 
unconventional intercourse common among all under- 
graduates, which might at any time ripen into an 
earnest and invaluable friendship, or merely stop at 
the stage of an agreeable acquaintanceship. A great, 
and not the least useful portion of university education 
consisted in the intimate knowledge of character and 


58 


JULIAN HOME. 


the many-sided sympathies which were thus insensibly 
acquired. 

During the first few weeks of college life, of course, 
a good deal of time was spent in receiving and return- 
ing the visits of acquaintances, old and new. Of the 
latter, there was one with whom Julian and Lillyston 
were equally charmed, and who soon became their 
constant companion. His name was Kennedy, and 
Julian first got to know him by sitting next him in 
lecture-room. His lively remarks, his keen and vivid 
sense of the ludicrous, the quick yet kindly notice he 
took of men’s peculiarities, his ardent appreciation of 
the books which occupied their time, and the pleasant, 
rapid way in which he would dash off a caricature, soon 
attracted notice, and he rapidly became popular, both 
among undergraduates and dons. He was known, too, 
by the warm eulogy of his former school-fellows, who 
were never tired of singing his praises among them- 
selves. 

“Splendid!” whispered he to Julian warmly, after 
Julian had just finished construing a difficult chorus in 
the Agamemnon, which he had done with a spirit and fire 
which even kindled a spark of admiration in the cold 
breast of Mr. Grayson. “Splendidly done, Home! I 
say, how very reserved you are. Here have I been 
longing to know you for the last ten days, and we have 
hardly got beyond a nod to each other yet. Do come 
in to tea at my rooms to-night at eight. I want to in- 
troduce you to a friend of mine — Owen of Roslyn 
School.” 

“With pleasure,” said Julian. “That dark-haired 
fellow is Owen, is it not ? I hear he’s going to do great 
things ! ” 

“ O yes ! booked for a Fellow and a double-first; so 
you ought to know him, you know.” 

“ Silence, gentlemen,” said Mr. Grayson, turning his 
stony gaze on Kennedy, whose bright face instantly 
assumed a demure expression of deep attention, while 
the light of laughter which still danced in his eyes 
might have betrayed to a careful observer the fact that 
the notes on which he appeared to be so assiduously 


JULIAN HOME. 59 

occupied mainly consisted of replications of Mr. Gray- 
son’s placid physiognomy and Roman nose. 

“ I’ve brought an umbra with me, Kennedy, in the 
person of Mr. Lillyston, who sits next me at lectures, 
and wanted to be introduced to you,” said Owen, as he 
came in to Kennedy’s room that evening. 

“ I’m delighted,” said Kennedy. “ Mr. Lillyston, let 
me introduce you to Mr. Home.” 

“We hardly need an introduction, Hugh, at this 
time of day ; do we?” said Julian laughing; and the 
four were soon as much at home as it was possible for 
men to be. There was no lack of conversation. I 
think the rooms of a Camford undergraduate are about 
the last place where conversation ever flags ; and when 
men like Kennedy, Owen, Julian, and Lillystone meet, 
it is perhaps more genuinely earnest and interesting 
than in any other time or place. 

The next day, as Kennedy was sitting in Julian’s 
rooms, glancing over the JEsehylus with him, in 
strutted Hazlet, whom we have incidentally mentioned 
as having been the son of a widow lady living at 
Ildown. He had come up to Camford straight 
from home, and as he had only received a home-educa- 
tion, everything was strangely bewildering to him, and 
Julian was almost the only friend he knew. Nor was 
he likely to attract many friends : his manner was 
strangely self-confident, and his language dictatorial 
and dogmatic. In his mother’s house he had long been 
the centre of religious tea-parties, before which he 
was often called upon to read and even to expound 
the Scriptures. “At the tip of his subduing tongue ” 
were a number of fantastic phrases, originally misap- 
plied, and long since worn bare of meaning, and the 
test of his orthodoxy was the universality with which 
he could reiterate proofs of heresy against every man 
of genius, honesty, and depth — who loved truth better 
than he loved the oracles of the prevalent idols. 
Hazlet practised the duty of Christian charity by deal- 
ing indiscriminate condemnation against all except 
those who belonged to his own exclusive and some- 
what ignorant school of religious intolerance. His 


60 


JULIAN HOME. 


face was the reflex of his mind : his lank black hair 
stuck down in stiff dry straightness over a contracted 
forehead and an ill-shaped head ; his spectacles gave 
additional glassiness to a lack-lustre eye ; and the 
manner in which he carried his chin in the air seemed 
like an acted representation of “ I am holier than thou.” 

Far be it from me to hold up to ridicule any body of 
earnest and honest men, to whatever party they may 
belong. 1 am writing of Ilazlet, not of those who hold 
the same opinions as he did. That man must have 
been unfortunate in life who has not many friends, and 
friends whom he holds in deep affection, among the 
adherents of opinions most entirely antagonistic to 
his own. Hazlet’s repulsiveness was due to a very 
mistaken education, developing a very foolish idiosyn- 
crasy, and especially to the pernicious system of en- 
couraging sentiments and expressions which in a boy’s 
mind could not be other than sickly exotics. He had 
to be taught his own hypocrisy by the painful progress 
of events ; and, above all, he had to learn that religious 
shibboleths may be no proof of sanctification, and that 
religious intolerance is usually the hybrid offspring of 
ignorance and conceit. In many essential matters he 
held the truth, — but he held it in unrighteousness. 

It may be imagined that Ilazlet was no favorite com- 
panion of Julian Home. But Julian loved and hon- 
ored to the utmost of his power the good points of 
all ; he had a deep and real veneration for humanity, 
and rarely allowed himself an unkind expression, or a 
look which indicated ennui, even to those associates 
by whose presence he was most unspeakably bored. 
Jiazlet mistook his courteous manner for a deferential 
agreement, and was, too often, in Julian’s presence 
more than usually insufferable in his Pharisaical tend- 
encies. 

“Good heavens!” said Kennedy, who saw ITazlet 
coming across the court. “Who’s this, Home? He 
looks as if he had been just presiding at three conven- 
ticles and a meeting at Philadelphus Hall. Surely he 
can’t be coming here.” 

“ O yes,” said Julian; “ that’s a compatriot of mine 


JULIAN HOME. 61 

named Hazlet ; a very good fellow, I believe, though 
rather obtrusive perhaps.” 

“ Good-morning, Home,” said Hazlet, in a measured 
and sanctified tone, as he entered the room and sat 
down. 

Kennedy glanced impatiently at the JEschylus. 

“ Ah ! 1 see you’re engaged on that heathen poet. 
It often strikes me, Home, that we may be wrong after 
all in spending so much time on these works of men, 
who, as St. Paul tells us, were ‘ wholly given to idola- 
try.’ I have just come from a most refreshing meet- 
ing at ” 

“Isay, Home,” cut in Kennedy, hastily, “shall I 
go? I suppose you won’t do over any more of the 
Agamemnon this morning.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Julian ; “ perhaps Hazlet will 
join us in our construe.” 

“ No, I think not,” said Hazlet, with a compassion- 
ate sigh. “I have looked at it; but some of it ap- 
. peared to me so pagan in its sentiments that I con- 
tented myself with praying that I might not be put on. 
But you haven’t told me what you think about what 
I was saying.” 

“Botheration,” said Kennedy; “so your theory is 
that Christianity was intended to put an extinguisher 
over the light of heaven-born genius, and that the 
power and passion and wisdom of iEschylus came 
from himself or the devil, and not from God ? Surely, 
without any further argument on such an absurd pro- 
position, it ought to be sufficient for you that this kind 
of learning forms a part of your immediate duty.” 

“I find other duties more paramount — now prayer, 
for instance, and talk with sound friends ” 

“Phew!!!” whistled Kennedy, thoroughly dis- 
gusted at language which was as new to him as it was 
distasteful ; and, to relieve his feelings, he abandoned 
the conversation to Julian, and began to turn over the 
books on the table. Julian, however, seemed quite 
disinclined to enter into the question, and after a 
pause, Hazlet, gracefully waiving his little triumph, 
asked him with a peculiar unction — 


62 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ And how goes it, my dear Home, with your im- 
mortal soul ? ” 

“My soul!” said Julian carelessly. “Oh! it’s all 
right.” 

“ One would think from your question that souls 
were liable to stomach-aches,” said Kennedy curtly. 

llazlet looked Pliiladelphus thunder at the profanity, 
but being too much taken aback to make any remark, 
he got up, and began to look at Julian’s pictures. 

“Ah,” he observed with a deep sigh, “I’m sorry to 
see that you have the portrait of so unsound, so danger- 
ous a man as Mr. Vere.” 

“ We’ll drop that topic, please, Hazlet,” said Julian, 
“ as we’re not likely to agree upon it.” 

“ Have you ever read one word that Mr. Vere ever 
wrote ? ” asked Kennedy. 

“Well, yes; at least no, not exactly; but still one 
may judge, you know; besides, I’ve seen extracts of 
his works.” 

“ Extracts ! ” answered Kennedy scornfully ; “ ex- 
tracts which often attribute to him the very sentiments 
which he is opposing. But it isn’t worth arguing with 
one of your school, who have the dishonesty to con- 
demn writers whom you are incapable of understand- 
ing, on the faith of extracts which they haven’t even 
read.” 

The wrathful purpling of Hazlet’s sallow countenance 
portended an explosion of orthodox spleen, but Julian 
gently interposed in time to save the devoted Kennedy 
from a few unmeasured anathemas. 

“ Hush ! ” he said, “ none of the odium theologicum, 
please, lest the mighty shade of iEschylus smile at you 
in scorn. Do drop the subject, Hazlet.” 

“Very well, if you like, Home; but I must deliver 
my conscience, you know. But really, Julian, you are 
not very Christian in your other pictures ; now look at 
this young — young person. I really don’t consider it 
quite a modest picture.” He pointed to the St. Mary 
of Egypt, being clad in the white robe of a Saviour’s 
innocence, and “ veiled in the long night of her dark 
hair.” 


JULIAN HOME. 


63 


Kennedy almost kicked his chair over in the im- 
patience of the gesture with which he received this 
apostrophe, and lie rose up with an exclamation that 
sounded suspiciously like “ Fool ! O fool ! ” 

“ To the pure all things are pure,” answered Julian 
calmly, — and checked himself without continuing the 
quotation. 

“ Pray, Mr. Hazlet, after your criticism of that pic- 
ture you’ll excuse me asking whether you don’t think 

there are some very improper things in ” 

“My dear Kennedy,” whispered Julian, “pray don’t 
let’s have an argument ; it really isn’t worth while.” 

Kennedy subsided into the recess of the window, 
hiding himself behind the curtain, but Hazlet, continu- 
ing his victorious career, proceeded to scrutinize the 
Fra Angelico. “And what have we here?” he ob- 
served sententiously. “ Why, really, my dear Home, 
this is quite papistical ; it is indeed. Why, here’s the 
Virgin Mary ; really, it’s quite Mariolatry — what I once 
heard an eminent anti-papistical scholar call hyperdulia 
of the Virgin. Do let me persuade you to remove this 
idolatrous relic; only think, Julian, what dangerous 
results it might produce on the perhaps un regenerate 
mind of your bed-maker for instance.” 

This was too much even for Julian’s politeness, and 
he joined in the shout of laughter with which Kennedy 
greeted this appeal. 

“ Fools make a mock at sin,” said Hazlet austerely. 
“ I trust that you will both be brought to a better state 
of mind ; I shall make it a special subject of prayer 
with the few Christian and congenial friends 'whom I 
can find here. Good-morning ! ” 

Kennedy flung himself into an arm-chair, and after 
finishing his laugh, exclaimed, “ My dear Home, where 
did you pick up that intolerable hypocrite ? ” 

“ Hush, Kennedy, hush ! don’t call him a hypocrite. 
His mode of religion may be very offensive to us, and 
yet it may be sincere.” 

“ Faugh ! the idea of asking you, ‘ How’s your 
soul?’ It reminds me of a friend of mine who was 
suddenly asked by a dissenting minister in a train, 1 if 


64 


JULIAN HOME. 


he didn’t feel an aching void?’ ‘An aching void? 
where?’ said Jones, in a tone of alarm, for he was an 
unimaginative person. ‘ Within, sir, within ! ’ said the 
stranger. Jones felt anxiously to find whether one of 
his ribs was accidentally protruding, but finding them 
all safe, set down the minister for a lunatic, and moved 
to the further end of the carriage.” 

Julian smiled; he was more accustomed to this kind 
of phraseology than his friend, and knew that outrage- 
ous as it was to good taste under the circumstances, it 
yet might spring from a sincere and honorable motive, 
or at best must be regarded as the natural result of 
innate vulgarity and mistaken training. 

“ Surely at best,” continued Kennedy, “ it’s a most 
unwarrantable impertinence for a fellow like that to 
want to dabble his ignorant and coarse hand in the 
hallowed secrets of the microcosm. Not to one’s near- 
est and dearest friend, not to one’s mother or brother 
would one babble promiscuously on such awful themes ; 
and to have the soul’s sublime and eternal emotions, 
its sacred and unspoken communings, lugged nut into 
farcical prominence by such conversational cant as 
that, is to dry up the very fountain of true religion, 
and put a premium on the successful grin of an offen- 
sive hypocrisy.” 

Kennedy seemed quite agitated, and as usual found 
relief in striding up and down the room. Ilis religious 
feelings were deep and real — none the less so for being 
hidden — and Hazlet’s language and manner had given 
him a rude shock. 

“Another hour in that fellow’s company would 
make me an infidel,” he exclaimed with quivering lips. 
“Pray for me, indeed, with some of his ‘sound and 
congenial friends.’ Faugh ! ‘ sound ! ’ how does he dare 
to judge whether his superiors are ‘ sound’ or not? and 
why must he borrow a metaphor from Stilton cheeses 
when he’s talking of religious convictions?” 

“Why really, Kennedy,” said Julian, “to see the 
contempt written in your face, one would think you 
were an archangel looking at a black beetle, as a learned 
judge once observed. If you won’t regard Hazlet as a 


JULIAN HOME. 65 

man and a brother, at least remember that he’s a verte- 
brate animal.” 

But Kennedy was not be joked out of his indigna- 
tion, so Julian continued: — “ I wish you knew more 
of Lillyston. At one time, I should have been nearly 
as much bothered by Hazlet as you, but Lillyston’s 
kind, genial good humor with every one, and the 
genuine respectful sympathy which he shows even for 
things he can least understand, have made me much 
happier than I should have been. Now, he might have 
done Hazlet some good, whereas your opposition, my 
dear fellow, will only make him more rampant than 
ever. Ah, here Lillyston comes.” 

“ What an honest, open face! ” said Kennedy. 

“ Like the soul which looks through it, sans peur et 
sans reproche ,” said Julian warmly. 

“ Rather a contrast to the last comer,” murmured 
Kennedy, as he picked up his cap and gown to walk to 
the lecture-room. 

“ There, don’t think of Hazlet any more,” said Julian. 

“ * He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all.’ 

A capital good motto that ; isn’t it, Hugh ? ” 

“ I must love Hazlet as one of the very small things, 
then,” said the incorrigible Kennedy as he left the room 
with the other two. 

Hazlet was put on to construe during the lecture, and 
if anything could have shaken the brazen tower of his 
self-confidence it would have been the egregious display 
of incapacity which followed ; but Hazlet rather piqued 
himself on his indifference to the poor blind heathen 
poets, on whose names he usually dealt reprobation 
broadcast. “Like lions that die of an ass’s kick,” 
those wronged great souls lay prostrate before Hazlet’s 
wrathful heels. 


5 



CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. 

THE SCORN OF SCORN. 

“ And not a man, for being simply man, 

Hath any honor, but honor for those honors 
That are without him — as place, riches, favor — 

Prizes of accident as oft as merit.” 

Shakspeare. 

Very different in all respects were Julian’s rencon- 
tres with others of his old school-fellows. There were 
some, indeed, among them who had left Harton while 
they were still in low forms, and some whose tastes 
and pursuits were so entirely different from his own, 
that it was hardly likely that he should maintain any 
other intercourse with them than such as was demanded 
by a slight acquaintance. But of Bruce, at any rate, 
it might have been expected that he would see rather 
more than proved to be the case. Bruce, as having been 
head of the school during the period when Julian was 
a monitor, had been thrown daily into his company, 
and, as inmates of the same house, they had acted to- 
gether in the thousand little scenes which diversify the 
bright and free monotony of a school-boy’s life. 

But the first fortnight passed by, and Bruce had not 
called on Julian, and as they were on different “sides,” 
they had not chanced to meet, either in lecture-room or 
elsewhere. Julian, not knowing whether his position 
as sizar would make any difference in Bruce’s estima- 
tion of him, had naturally left him to take the initiative 
in calling ; while Bruce, on the other hand, always a 
little jealous of his brilliant contemporary, and not too 
anxious to be familiar with a sizar, pretended to himself 
66 


JULIAN HOME. 


67 


that it was as much Julian’s place as his to be first in 
calling. Hence it was that, for the first fortnight, the 
two did not happen to come across each other. 

Meanwhile Bruce also had made many fresh ac- 
quaintances. Ilis reputation for immense wealth and 
considerable talent — his dashing easy manner— his 
handsome person and elaborate style of dress, attracted 
notice, and very soon threw him into the circle of all 
the young fashionables of St. Werner’s. His style of 
life cannot be better described than by saying that he 
affected the fine gentleman. Hardly a day had passed 
during which he had not been at some large break- 
fast or wine party, or formed one of a select little 
body of supping aristocrats. He did very little work, 
and pretended to do none (for Bruce was a first-rate 
specimen of the never-open-a-book genus), although at 
unexpected hours he took care to get up the lecture- 
room subjects sufficiently well to make a display when 
he was put on. Even in this he was unsuccessful, for 
scholarship cannot be acquired per saltum,, and Mr. 
Serjeant, the lecturer on his side, looked on him with 
profound contempt as a puppy who was all the more 
offensive from pretending to some knowledge. He told 
him that he might distinguish himself by hard steady 
work, but would never do so without infinitely more 
pains than he took the trouble to apply. His quiet 
and caustic strictures, and the easy sarcasm with which 
he would allow Bruce to flourish his way through a 
passage, and then go through it himself, pointing out 
how utterly Bruce had “hopped with airy and fastidious 
levity” above all the nicer shades of meaning, and 
slurred over his ignorance of a difficulty by some piece 
of sonorous nonsense, made him peculiarly the object 
of the young man’s disgust. But though Mr. Serjeant 
wounded his vanity, the irony of u a musty old don,” 
as Bruce contemptuously called him, was amply atoned 
for by the compliments of the fastyoung admirers whom 
Bruce soon gathered around him, and some of whom 
were always to be found after hall-time sipping his 
claret or lounging in his gorgeous rooms. To them 
Bruce’s genius was incontestably proved by the fault- 


68 


JULIAN HOME. 


less evenness with which he parted his hair behind, the 
dapperness of his boots, and the merit of his spotless 
shirts. 

Sir Rollo Bruce, Yyvyan’s father, was a man of no 
particular family, who had been knighted on a deputa- 
tion, and contrived to glitter in the most splendid circles 
of London society. His magnificent entertainments, 
his exquisite appointments, his apparently fabulous 
resources, were a sufficient passport into the saloons of 
dukes ; and although ostensibly Sir Rollo had nothing 
to live on but his salary as the chairman of a bank, no- 
body who had the entree of his house cared particularly 
to inquire into the sources of his wealth. Yyvyan imi- 
tated his father in his expensive tastes, and cultivated, 
with vulgar assiduity, the society of the noblemen at 
his college. In a short time he knew them all, and all 
of them had been at his rooms except a young Lord 
De Yayne, of whom we shall hear more hereafter, and 
whose retiring manners made him shrink with dislike 
from Bruce’s fawning familiarity. 

The sizars at St. Werner’s do not dine at the same 
hour as the rest of the undergraduates, but the hour 
after, and their dinner consists of the dishes which 
have previously figured on the Fellows’ table. It seems 
to me that the time may come when the authorities of 
that royal foundation will see reason to regret so un- 
necessary an arrangement, the relic of a long obsolete 
and always undesirable system. Many of St. Werner’s 
most distinguished alumni have themselves sat at 
the sizars’ table, and if any of them were blessed or 
cursed with sensitive dispositions, they will not be 
dead to the justice of these remarks. The sizars are, 
by birth and education, invariably, so far as I know, 
the sons of gentlemen, and perhaps most often of clergy- 
men, whose means prevent them from bearing un- 
assisted the heavy burden of university expenses. 
After a short time many of these sizars become scholars, 
and eventually a large number of them win for them- 
selves the honors of a fellowship. Why put on these 
young students a gratuitous indignity ? Why subject 
them to the unpleasant remarks which some are quite 


JULIAN MOMS. 


69 


coarse enough to make on the subject ? The authori- 
ties of St. Werner’s are full of real courtesy and kind- 
ness, and that the arrangement is not intended as an 
indignity I am well aware ; it is, as I have said, the 
accidental fragment of an obsolete period — a period 
when scholars dined on “a penny piece of beef,” 
and slept two or three in a room at the foot of the 
Fellows’ beds. All honor to St. Werner’s; all honor 
to the great, and the wise, and the learned, and the 
noble whom she has sent forth into all lands; all honor 
to the bravery and the truthfulness of her sons ; all 
honor to the profound scholars, and able teachers, and 
eloquent orators who preside at her councils ; she is a 
queen of colleges, and may wield her sceptre with a 
strong hand and a proud. But it is no right proof of 
loyalty in her sons to reject the words of calm advice ; 
— it is no true affection that makes men love her faults 
or prop up her abuses ; — it is no deliberate wisdom that 
daubs her walls with the untempered mortar of pre- 
judice, when she is so nearly perfect in her constitu- 
tion, and when nothing is required to secure her noble 
solidity except the removal of here and there a bent 
pillar, or here and there a crumbling stone. 

And now let all defenders of present institutions 
however bad they may be — let all violent supporters 
of their old mumpsimus against any new sumpsimus 
whatever, listen to a conversation among some under- 
graduates. It may convince them, or it may not — I 
cannot tell; but I know that it had a powerful in- 
fluence on me. 

Bruce was standing in the Butteries, where he had 
just been joined by Lord Fitzurse and Sir John D’Acres, 
who by virtue of their titles — certainly not by any 
other virtue — sat among reverend Professors and 
learned Doctors at the high table, far removed from 
the herd of common undergraduates. With the three 
were Mr. Boodle and Mr. Tulk (the “Mister ” is given 
them in the college lists out of respect for the long 
purses which have purchased them the privilege of 
fellow-commoners or JaXa^noyewaTm)^ who enjoyed the 
same enviable distinction and happy privilege. By 


70 


JULIAN HOME. 


the screens were four or five sizars ; a few more were 
scattered about in the passage waiting, whilst the 
servants hurriedly placed the dishes on the table set 
apart for them ; and Julian was chatting to Lillyston, 
who chanced at the moment to have been passing by. 

“ Who is that table for ? ” asked D’ Acres, pointing 
through the open door of the hall. 

“O, that’s for the sizars,” tittered the feeble-minded 
Boodle, who tittered at everything. 

“ S-s-sizars ! ” stammered Lord Fitzurse. “ What’s 
that mean? Are they v-v-very big f-f-fellows ? ” 

I will not again repeat either Bruce’s answer to this 
question or the rejoinder which it elicited from Lord 
Fitzurse. Suffice it to say, that they were of the 
rudest character which thoughtlessness and insolence 
could suggest. 

“ Hush ! ” said D’ Acres, who was a thorough gentle- 
man; “some of the sizars may be here;” and he 
dropped Bruce’s arm. 

“ Pooh ! they’ll feel flattered,” said Bruce carelessly, 
as D’Acres walked off. 

“ Indeed ! ” said Julian, striding indignantly forward, 
for the conversation was so loud that he had heard 
every word of it. “ Flattered to be the butt for the 
insolence and puppyism of every fool who is coarse 
enough to insult them publicly.” 

“ Who the d-d-d-deuce are you ? ” said Lord Fitzurse, 
“for you’re coming it r-r-rather strong.” 

“Who is he?” said Lillyston, breaking in, “your 
equal, sir, in birth, as he is your superior in intellect, 
and in every moral quality. Gentlemen,” he continued, 
“ let me just warn you how you have the impertinence 
to talk in this way again.” 

“ Warn us ! ” said Bruce, trying to hide under 
bravado his crest-fallen temper ; “ why, what’ll you do 
if we choose to continue?” 

“ Make a few counter-remarks to begin with, Bruce, 
on parasites and parvenus, tuft-hunting freshmen, and 
the tenth transmitters of a foolish face,” retorted Lilly- 
ston, glowing with honest indignation. 

“ And turn you out of the Butteries by the shoul- 


JULIAN HOME. 


71 


ders,” said a strong undergraduate, who had chanced 
to be a witness of the scene. “A somewhat boyish 
proceeding, perhaps, but exactly suited to some capa- 
cities.” 

Bruce and his friends, seeing that they were begin- 
ning to have the worst of it, thought it about time to 
swagger off, and for the future learnt to confine their 
remarks to a more exclusive circle. 

There had been another silent spectator of the 
scene in the person of Lord De Vayne. He was a 
young viscount whose estate bordered on the grounds 
of Lonstead Abbey, and he had known Julian since 
both of them were little boys. He had been entirely 
educated at home with an excellent tutor, who had 
filled his mind with all wise and generous sentiments ; 
but his widowed mother lived in such complete seclu- 
sion that he had rarely entered the society of any of 
his own age, and was consequently timid and bashful. 
Meeting sometimes with Julian, he had conceived a 
warm admiration for his genius and character, and at 
one time had earnestly wished to join him at Harton. 
But his mother was so distressed at the proposition 
that he at once abandoned it, while he eagerly looked 
forward to the time when he should meet his friend at 
St. Werner’s, on the books of which college he had 
entered his name partly for this very reason. He had 
not been an undergraduate many days before he called 
on Julian, who had received him indeed very kindly, 
but who seemed rather shy of being much in his com- 
pany for fear of the ill-natured criticisms which he 
had not yet learnt entirely to disregard. This was a 
great source of vexation to De Vayne, though the rea- 
son of it was partly explained after the remarks which 
he had just overheard. 

“Home,” he whispered, “I wish you’d come into my 
rooms after hall ; I should so much like to have a talk. 
Do,” he said, as he saw that Julian hesitated ; “ I assure 
you T have felt quite lonely here.” 

Accordingly, after hall, Julian strolled into War- 
wick’s Court, and found his way to Lord De Vayne’s 
rooms. 


72 


JULIAN HOME. 


“I am so glad to see you, Julian, at last. As I 
have told you,” he said, with a glistening eye, “ I have 
been very lonely. I have never left home before, and 
have made no friend here as yet ; ” and he heaved a 
deep sigh. 

Julian felt his heart full of friendliness for the 
gentle boy whose total inexperience made him seem 
younger than he really was. He glanced round the 
rooms ; they were richly furnished, but full of memo- 
rials of home, that gave them a melancholy aspect. 
Over the fireplace was a water-color likeness of his 
lady-mother in her widow’s weeds, and on the opposite 
side of the room another picture of a beautiful young 
child — De Vayne’s only brother, who had died in in- 
fancy. The handsomely-bound books on the shelves had 
been transferred from their well-known places in the 
library of Uther Hall, and the regal antlers which were 
fastened over the door had once graced the dining- 
room. Thousands would have envied Lord De Yayne’s 
position ; but he had caught the shadow of his mother’s 
sadness, his relations were few, at St. Werner’s as yet 
he had found none to lean upon, and he felt unhappy 
and alone. 

“I was so ashamed, Julian,” he said, “so utterly 
and unspeakably ashamed to hear the rudeness of these 
men as we came out of hall. I’m afraid you must 
have felt deeply hurt.” 

“Yes, for the moment; but I’m sorry that I took 
even a moment’s notice of it. Why should one be 
ruffled because others are unfeeling and impertinent; 
it is their misfortune, not ours. The only thing to do 
is to recall to their memory that sadly-neglected com- 
mandment, — the ninth.” 

“But why did you come up as a sizar, Julian? 
Surely with Lonstead Abbey as your inheritance ” 

“No,” said Julian, with a smile; “I am lord of my 
leisure and no land beside.” 

“ Really ! I had always looked on you as a future 
neighbor and helper.” 

He was too delicate to make any inquiries on the 
subject, but while a bright airy vision rose for an in- 


JULIAN HOME. 


73 


stant before Julian’s fancy, and then died away, his 
friend said, with ingenuous embarrassment — 

“ You know, Home, I am very rich. In truth, I have 
far more money than I know what to do with. It 

only troubles me. I wish ” 

“ O dear no ! ” said Julian hastily ; “ I got the Newry 
scholarship, you know, at Harton, and I really need no 
assistance whatever.” 

“ I hope I haven’t offended you ; how unlucky I am,” 
said De Yayne blushing. 

“ Not a whit, De Yayne; I know your kind heart.” 

“ Well, do let me see something of you. Won’t you 
come a walk sometimes, or let me come in of an even- 
ing when you’re taking tea, and not at work ? ” 

“ Do,” said Julian, and they agreed to meet at his 
rooms on the following Sunday evening. 

Sunday at Camford was a happy day for Julian 
Home. It was a day of perfect leisure and rest ; the 
time not spent at church or in the society of others he 
generally occupied in taking a longer walk than usual, 
or in the luxuries of solemn and quiet thought. But 
the greatest enjoyment was to revel freely in books, 
and devote himself unrestrained to the gorgeous scenes 
of poetry or the passionate pages of eloquent men. On 
that day he drank deeply of pure streams that re- 
freshed him for his weekly work ; nor did he forget 
some hour of commune, in the secresy of his chamber 
and the silence of his heart, with that God and Father 
in whom alone he trusted, and to whom alone he looked 
for deliverance from difficulty and guidance under 
temptation. Of all hours his happiest and strongest 
were those in which he was alone — alone except for a 
heavenly presence, sitting at the feet of a Friend, and 
looking face to face upon himself. 

He had been reading Wordsworth since hall- time, 
when the ringing of the chapel-bell summoned him to 
put on his surplice, and walk quietly down to chapel. 
As there was plenty of time, he took a stroll or two 
across the court before going in. While doing so, he 
met De Yayne, and in his company suddenly found 
himself vis-a-vis with his old enemy Brogten. 


74 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ Hm ! ” whispered Brogten to his companion ; “ the 
sizars are getting on. A sizar and a viscount arm-in- 
arm ! ” 

Julian only heard enough of this sentence to be 
aware that it was highly insolent ; and the flush on De 
Vayne’s cheek showed that he too had caught some- 
thing of its meaning. 

“Never mind that boor’s rudeness,” he said. “I 
feel more than honored to be in your company. How 
admirably quiet you are, Julian, under such conduct! ” 

“ I try to be ; not always with success, though,” he 
answered, as his breast swelled and his lip quivered 
with indignation : — 

“ ‘ Scorn ! — to be scorned by one that I scorn : 

Is that a matter to make me fret ? 

Is that a matter to cause regret ? ’ — 

Stop I let’s come into chapel.” 

They went into chapel together. De Vayne walked 
into the noblemen’s seats, and Julian, hot and angry, 
and with the words, “ Scorn ! — to be scorned by one 
that I scorn,” still ringing in his ears, strode up the 
whole length of the chapel to the obscure corner set 
apart — is it not very needlessly set apart? — for the 
sizars’ use. 

St. Werner’s chapel on a Sunday evening is a moving 
sight. Five hundred men in surplices thronging the 
chapel from end to end — the very flower of English 
youth, in manly beauty, in strength, in race, in courage, 
in mind — all kneeling side by side, bound together in 
a common bond of union by the grand historic asso- 
ciations of that noble place — all mingling their voices 
together with the trebles of the choir and the thunder- 
music of the organ— this is a spectacle not often 
equalled ; and to take a share in it as one for whose 
sake in part it has been established is a privilege not 
to be forgotten. The music, the devotion, the spirit of 
the place, smoothed the swelling thoughts of Julian’s 
troubled heart. “ Are we not all brethren ? Hath not 
one Father begotten us ? ” Such began to be the bur- 
den of liis thoughts, rather than the old “ Scorn ! — to 


JULIAN HOME. 


75 


be scorned by one that I scorn.” And when the glo- 
rious tones of the anthem ceased, and the calm steady 
voice of the chaplain was heard alone, uttering in the 
sudden hush the grand overture to the noble prayer — 
“ O Lord , our heavenly Father , high and mighty , King 
of Kings , Lord of Lords , the only Rider of princes, 
who dost from thy throne behold all the dwellers upon 
earth,” — then the last demon of wrath was exorcised, 
and Julian thought to himself — “ No : from henceforth 
I scorn no one, and am indifferent alike to the proud 
man’s scorn and the base man’s sneer.” 

The two incidents that we have narrated made 
Julian fear that his position as a sizar would be one 
of continual annoyance. He afterwards gratefully ac- 
knowledged that in such a supposition he was quite 
mistaken. Never again while lie remained a sizar did 
he hear the slightest unkind allusions to the circum- 
stance, and but for the external regulations imposed 
by the college, he might even have forgotten the fact. 
Those regulations, especially the hall arrangements, 
were indeed sufficiently disagreeable at times. It could 
not be pleasant to dine in a hall which had just been 
left by hundreds of men, and to make the meal amid 
the prospect of slovenly servants employed in the 
emptying of wine-glasses and the ligurrition of dishes, 
sometimes even in passages of coquetry or noisy civil- 
ities, on the interchange of which the presence of these 
undergraduates seemed to impose but little check. 
These things may be better now, and in spite of them 
Julian felt hearty reason to be grateful for the real 
kindness of the St. Werner’s authorities. In other 
respects he found that the fact of his being a sizar made 
no sort of difference in his position ; he found that the 
majority of men either knew or cared nothing about it, 
and sought his society on terms of the most unques- 
tioned equality, for the sake of the pleasure which his 
company afforded them, and the thoughts which it en- 
abled them to ventilate or interchange. 



CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. 

STUDY AND IDLENESS. 

“ Then what golden hours were for us, 

While we sate together there ! 

How the white vests of the chorus, 

Seemed to wave up a live air, 

How the cothurns trod majestic, 

Down the deep iambic lines, 

And the rolling anapoestic 
Curled like vapor over shrines ! ” 

E. Barrett Browning. 

The incentives which lead young men to work are as 
various as the influences which tend to make them 
idle. One toils on, however hopelessly, from a sense 
of duty, from a desire to please his parents, and satisfy 
the requirements of the place ; another because he has 
been well trained into habits of work, and has a notion 
of educating the mind; a third because he has set his 
heart on a fellowship ; a fourth, because he is intensely 
ambitious, and looks on a good degree as the stepping- 
stone to literary or political honors. The fewest per- 
haps pursue learning for her own sake, and study out 
of a simple eagerness to know what may be known, as 
the best means of cultivating their intellectual powers 
for the attainment of at least a personal solution of 
those great problems, the existence of which they 
have already begun to realize. But of this rare class 
was Julian Home. He studied with an ardor and a 
passion before which difficulties vanished, and in con- 
sequence of which he seemed to progress not the less 
surely, because it was with great strides. For the first 
76 


JULIAN HOME. 


77 


time in his life, Julian found himself entirely alone in 
the great wide realm of literature — alone, to wander at 
his own will, almost without a guide. And joyously 
did that brave young spirit pursue its way — now rest- 
ing in some fragrant glen, and by some fountain mirror, 
where the boughs which bent over him were bright 
with blossom and rich with fruit — now plunging into 
some deep thicket, where at every step he had to push 
aside the heavy branches and tangled weeds — and now 
climbing with toilful progress some steep and rocky 
hill, on whose summit, hardly attained, he could rest 
at last, and gaze back over perils surmounted and pre- 
cipices passed, and mark the thunder rolling over the 
valleys, or gaze on kingdoms full of peace and beauty, 
slumbering in the broad sunshine beneath his feet. 

Julian read for the sake of knowledge, and because 
he intensely enjoyed the great authors whose thoughts 
he studied. He had read parts of Homer, parts of 
Thucydides, parts of Tacitus, parts of the tragedians, 
at school, but now he had it in his power to study a 
great author entire, and as a whole. Never before did 
he fully appreciate the “thunderous lilt” of Greek 
epic, the touching and voluptuous tenderness of Latin 
elegy, the regal pomp of history, the gorgeous and 
philosophic mystery of the old dramatic fables. Never 
before had he learnt to gaze on “ the bright counte- 
nance of truth, in the mild and dewy air of delightful 
studies.” Those who decry classical education do so 
from inexperience of its real character and value, and 
can hardly conceive the sense of strength and freedom 
which a young and ingenuous intellect acquires in all 
literature, and in all thought, by the laborious and suc- 
cessful endeavor to enter into that noble heritage 
which has been left us by the wisdom of bygone gen- 
erations. Those hours were the happiest of Julian’s 
life; often would he be beguiled by his studies into the 
« wee small ” hours of night ; and in the grand com- 
pany of eloquent men and profound philosophers he 
would forget everything in the sense of intellectual 
advance. Then first he began to understand Milton’^ 
noble exclamation — 


78 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ How charming is divine philosophy ! 

Not harsh and rugged as dull fools suppose, 
But musical as is Apollo’s lute, 

And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, 
Where no crude surfeit reigns.” 


He studied accurately, yet with appreciation ; some- 
times the two ways of study are not combined, and 
while one man will be content with a cold and barren 
estimate of ye\ and derived from wading through 
the unutterable tedium of interminable German notes, 
of which the last always contradicted all the rest; an- 
other will content himself with eviscerating the gen- 
eral meaning of a passage, without any attempt to feel 
the finer pulses of emotion, or discriminate the nicer 
shades of thought. Eschewing commentators as much 
as he could, Julian would first carefully go over a long 
passage, solely with a view to the clear comprehension 
of the author’s language, and would then re-read the 
whole for the purpose of enjoying and appreciating the 
thoughts which the words enshrined ; and finally, when 
he had finished a book or a poem, would run through 
it again as a whole with all the glow and enthusiasm 
of a perfect comprehension. 

Sometimes Kennedy, or Owen, or Lord De Vayne 
would read with him. This was always in lighter and 
easier authors, read chiefly for practice, and for the 
sake of the poetry or the story which lent them their 
attraction. It was necessary to pursue in solitude all 
the severer paths of study ; but he found these even- 
ings, spent at once in society and yet over books, full 
both of profit and enjoyment. Lillyston, although not 
a first-rate classic, often formed one of the party; 
Owen and Julian contributed the requisite scholarship 
and the accurate knowledge, while Lillyston and De 
Vayne would often throw out some literary illustration 
or historical parallel, and Kennedy gave life and bright- 
ness to them all by the flow and sparkle of his gaiety 
and wit. But it must be admitted that Kennedy was 
the least studious element in the party, and was too 
often the cause of digressions and conversations which 


JULIAN HOME. 79 

led them to abandon altogether the immediate object 
of their evening’s work. 

Kennedy had a tendency to idleness, which was 
developed by the freedom with which he plunged into 
society of all kinds. His company was so agreeable, 
and his bright young face was so happy an addition to 
all parties, that he was in a round of constant engage- 
ments — breakfast-parties, wines, supper-parties, and 
dinners — that encroached far too much on the hours 
of work. At school the perpetual examinations kept 
alive an emulous spirit, which counteracted his fond- 
ness for mental vagrancy ; but at college the examin- 
ations — at least those of any importance — are few and 
far between ; and he always flattered himself that 
he meant soon to make up for lost time ; for three 
years look an immense period to a young man at the en- 
trance of his university career. It was nearly as neces- 
sary (even in a pecuniary point of view) for him as for 
Julian to make the best use of his time; for although 
he was an only son, he was not destined to inherit a 
fortune sufficient for his support. 

“Just look at these cards,” he said to Julian one 
day ; “ there is not one of them which hasn’t an invita- 
tion scribbled on it. These engagements really leave 
one no time for work. What a bore it is ! how do you 
manage to escape them ? ” 

“Well — first, I haven’t such a large acquaintance 
as you ; that make a great deal of difference. But, 
besides, I make a point of leaving breakfast-parties at 
ten, and wines at chapel time — so that I really don’t 
find them any serious hindrance. No hindrance, I 
mean, in comparison with the delight and profit of the 
society itself.” 

“ I wish I could make the same resolution,” said 
Kennedy; “but the fact is, I find company so thor- 
oughly amusing, that I’m always tempted to stay.” 

“But why not decline sometimes?” 

“I don’t know — it looks uncivil. Here, which of 
these shall I cut ? ” he said, tossing three or four notes 
and cards to Julian. 

“ This, for one,” said Julian, as he read the first 


80 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ ‘ Dear Kennedy — Come to supper and cards at ten. 
Bruce wants to be introduced to you. Yours, 

“ ‘ C. Brogten.’ ” 

“ Yes ; I think I shall. I don’t like that fellow 
Brogten, who is always thrusting himself in my way,” 
said Kennedy. “ Heigh ho!” and Kennedy leant his 
head on his arm, and fell into a reverie, thinking that 
after all his three years at college might be over almost 
before he was aware of how much time he lost. 

“ I hope you don’t play cards much,” said Julian. 

“ Why ? I hear Hazlet has been denouncing them in 
hall with unctuous fervor, and I do think it was that 
which led me to join in a game which was instantly 
proposed by some of the men who sat near.” 

“ I don’t say that there’s anything diabolical,” said 
Julian, smiling, “in paint and pasteboard, or that I 
should have the least objection to play them myself if 
I wanted amusement, but I think them — except very 
occasionally, and in moderation — a waste of time ; and 
if you play for money I don’t think it does you any 
good.” 

“ Well, I’ve never played for money yet. By the 
by, do you know Bruce ? he has the character and 
manner of a very gentlemanly fellow.” 

“Yes, I know him,” said Julian, who made a point 
of holding his tongue about a man when he had noth- 
ing favorable to say. 

“O ay, I forgot ; of course; he’s a Hartonian. But 
didn’t you think him gentlemanly ? ” 

“ He has an easy manner, and is accustomed to good 
society, which is usually all that is intended by the 
word,” said Julian. 

“ I think I must go just this one evening. I like to 
see a variety of men ; one learns something from it.” 

Kennedy went. The supper took place in Brogten’s 
rooms, and the party then adjourned to Bruce’s, where 
they immediately began a game at whist for half-a- 
crown points, and then “unlimited loo.” Kennedy 
was induced to play “just to see what it was like.” 
As the game proceeded he became more and mor§ 


JULIAN no ME. 


81 


excited ; the others were accustomed to the thing, and 
concealed their eagerness; but Kennedy, who was 
younger and more inexperienced than any of them, 
threw himself into the game, and drank heedlessly of 
the wine that freely circulated. Surely if guardian 
spirits attend the footsteps of youth, one angel must 
have wept that evening “tears such as angels weep” 
to see him, with his flushed face and sparkling eyes, 
eagerly seizing the sums he won, or, with clenched 
hand and contracted brow, anxiously awaiting the re- 
sult of some adverse turn in the chances of the game. 

How Kennedy got home he never knew, but next 
morning he awoke headachy and feverish, and the first 
thing he saw on his table was a slip of paper on which 
was written, “ Kennedy admonished by the senior Dean 
for being out after twelve o’clock.” The notice an- 
noyed and ashamed him. lie lay in bed till late, was 
absent from lecture, and got up to an unrelished break- 
fast, at which he was disturbed by the entrance of 
Bruce, to congratulate him on his winnings of the 
evening before. 

While Bruce was talking to him, Lillyston also 
strolled in on his way from lecture to ask what had 
kept Kennedy away. He was surprised to seethe pale 
and weary look on his face, and catching sight of Bruce 
seated on the arm-chair by the fire, he merely made 
some commonplace remarks and left the room. But 
he met Julian in the court, and told him that Kennedy 
didn’t seem to be well. 

“I’m not surprised,” said Julian; “he supped with 
Brogten, and then went to play cards with Bruce, and 
I hear that Bruce’s card parties are not very steady 
proceedings.” 

“Can’t we manage to keep him out of that set, 
Julian ? it will be the ruin of his reading.” 

“Ay, and worse, Hugh. But what can one say? It 
will hardly do to read homilies to one’s fellow-under- 
graduates.” 

“ You might at least give him a hint.” 

“ I will. I suppose he’ll come and do some Euripides 
to-night.” 


82 


JULTAN HOME. 


lie did come, and when they had read some three 
hundred lines, and the rest were separating, he pro- 
posed to Julian a turn in the great court. 

The stars were crowding in their bright myriads, and 
the clear silvery moonlight bathed the court, except 
where the hall and chapel flung fantastic and mysteri- 
ous shadows across the green smooth-mown lawns of 
the quadrangle. The soft light, the cool exhilarating 
night air were provocative of thought, and they walked 
up and down for a time in silence. 

Many thoughts were evidently working in Ken- 
nedy’s mind, and they did not all seem to be bright or 
beautiful as the thoughts of youth should be. Julian’s 
brain was busy too ; and as they paced up and down, 
arm-in-arm, the many-colored images of hope and fancy 
were flitting thick and fast across his vision. He was 
thinking of his own future and of Kennedy’s, whom 
he was beginning to love as a brother, and for whose 
moral weakness lie sometimes feared. 

“Julian,” said Kennedy, suddenly breaking the si- 
lence ; “ were you ever seized by an uncontrollable, 
unaccountable, irresistible presentiment of coming evil 
— a feeling as if a sudden gulf of blackness and horror 
yawned before you — a dreadful something haunting 
you, you knew not what, but only knew that it was 
there ?” 

“ I have had presentiments, certainly ; though hardly 
of the kind you describe.” 

“Well, Julian, I have such a presentiment now, 
overshadowing me with the sense of guilt of which I 
was never guilty ; as though it were the shadow of 
some crime committed in a previous state of existence, 
forgotten yet unforgotten, incurred yet unavenged.” 

“ Probably the mere result of a headache this morn- 
ing, and the night air now,” said Julian, smiling at 
the energetic description, yet pained by the intensity 
of Kennedy’s tone of voice. 

“ Hush, Julian ! I hate all that stupid materialism. 
Depend upon it, some evil thing is over me. I wonder 
whether crimes of the future can throw their crimson 
shadow back over the past. My life, thank God, has 


JULIAN HOME. 


83 


been an innocent one, yet now I feel like the guiltiest 
thing alive.” 

“ One oughtn’t to yield to such feelings, or to be the 
victim of a heated imagination, Kennedy. In my own 
case at least, half the feelings I have fancied" to be 
presentiments have turned out false in the end — pre- 
sentiments, I mean, which have been suggested, as 
perhaps this has, by passing circumstances.” 

“ God grant this may be false,” said Kennedy, “ but 
something makes me feel uneasy.” 

“It will be a lying prophet if you so determine, 
Kennedy. The only enemy who has real power to 
hurt us is ourselves. Why should you be agitated by 
an idle forecast of uncertain calamity ? Be brave, and 
honest, and pure, and God will be with you. 

“ Don’t be surprised,” continued Julian, “ if you’ve 
heard me say the same words before ; they were my 
father’s dying bequest to his eldest son.” 

“Be brave, and honest, and pure ” repeated 

Kennedy; “yes, you must be right, Julian. Look 
what a glorious sky, and what numberless ‘ patines of 
bright gold.” ’ 

Julian looked up, and at that moment a meteor shot 
across the heaven, plunging as though from the gal- 
axy into the darkness, and after the white and dazzling 
lustre of the trail had disappeared, seeming to leave 
behind the glory of it a deeper gloom. It furnished 
too true a type of many a young man’s destiny. 

Kennedy said nothing, but although it is not the 
Cam ford custom to shake hands, he shook Julian’s 
hand that night with one of those warm and loving 
grasps which are not soon forgotten. And each 
walked slowly back to his own room. 



OHAPTER THE NINTH. 

THE BOAT-RACE. 

“ And caught once more the distant shout 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Between the willows.” 

In Memoriam. 

The banks of “the silvery-winding river” were 
thronged with men ; between the hours of two and four 
the sculls were to be tried for, and some eight hun- 
dred of the thousand under-graduates poured out of 
their colleges by twos and threes to watch the result 
from the banks on each side. 

The first and second guns had been fired, and the 
scullers in their boats, each some ten yards apart from 
the other, are anxiously waiting the firing of the third, 
which is the signal for starting. That strong, splendid- 
looking man, whose arms are bared to the shoulder, 
and “ the muscles all a-ripple on his back,” is almost 
quivering with anxious expectation. The very in- 
stant the sound of the gun reaches his ear those oar- 
blades will flash like lightning into the water, and 
“smite the sounding furrows,” with marvellous reg- 
ularity and speed. He is the favorite, and there are 
some heavy bets on his success ; Bruce and Brogten 
and Lord Fitzurse will be richer or poorer by some 
twenty pounds each from the result of this quarter of 
an hour. 

The three are standing together on the towing-path 
opposite that little inn where the river suddenly makes 
a wide bend, and where, if the rush of men were not 
certain to sweep them forward, they might see a very 
84 


JULIAN HOME . 


85 


considerable piece of the race. But directly the signal 
is given and the boats start, everybody will run im- 
petuously at full speed along the banks to keep up 
with the boats, and cheer on their own men, and it 
will be necessary for our trio to make the best pos- 
sible use of their legs before the living cataract pours 
down upon them. Indeed, they would not have been 
on the towing-path at all, but among the rather mis- 
cellaneous occupants of the grass plat before the inn 
on the other side of the river, were it not for their 
desire to run along with the boats, and inspirit the 
rowers on whom they have betted. 

But what is this ? A great odious slow-trailing 
barge looms into sight, nearly as broad as the river 
itself, black as the ferruginous ferryboat of Charon, 
and slowly dragged down the stream by two stout 
cart horses, beside which a young bargee is plodding 
along in stolid independence. 

“ Hi! hi! you clodhopper there, stop that infernal 
barge,” shouted Bruce at the top of his voice, knowing 
that if the barge once passed the winning posts, the 
race would be utterly spoilt. 

“ St-t-t-top there, you cl-l-lown, w-w-will you,” 
stuttered Fitzurse, more incoherent than usual with 
indignation. 

The young bargee either didn’t hear these apos- 
trophes, or didn’t choose to attend to them when they 
were urged in that kind of way ; and besides this, as 
the men were entirely concealed from his view by the 
curve of the river, he wasn’t aware of the coming 
race, and therefore saw no reason to obey such imperi- 
ous mandates. 

“ Confound the grimy idiot ; doesn’t he hear ? ” said 
Bruce, turning red and pale with excitement as he 
thought of the money he had at stake, and remembered 
that the skiff on which all his hopes lay was first in 
order, and would therefore be most likely to suffer by 
any momentary confusion. “ Come, Brogten, let’s stop 
him somehow before it’s too late.” 

“Let’s cut the scoundrel’s ropes,” said Brogten 
between his teeth ; and at once the three darted for- 


JULIAN HOME. 


ward at full speed, at the very instant that the sharp 
crack of the final signal-gun was heard. 

It so happened that Julian and Lillyston had started 
rather late for the races, and had come up with the 
barge just as it had first neglected the summons of 
Bruce and Fitzurse. 

“ Come, bargee,” said Lillyston good-humoredly, 
“ out of the way with the barge as quick as ever you 
can; there’s a boat-race, and you’ll spoil the fun.” 

“ Oh, it’s a race, be it?” said the man as he instantly 
helped Lillyston to back the horses. “ If them young 
jackanapes had only toald me, ’stead of blusterin’ that 
way ” 

His speech was interrupted by Bruce, who, with his 
friends, had instantly sprang at the ropes, and cut 
them in half a dozen places, while the great heavy 
horses, frightened out of their propriety, turned tail 
and bolted away at a terrifically heavy trot. 

“You great lubber,” shouted Brogten, who had been 
the first to use his knife, “ why didn’t you move when 
we told you ? What business have louts like you to 
come blundering up the river, and spoil our races?” 
And Fitzurse, confident in superior numbers, gave 
emphasis to the question by knocking oft' the man’s 
cap. 

The bargee was a strongly-built, stupid, healthy- 
looking fellow, of some twenty-three years old, who 
from being slow of passion, was all the more terrible 
when aroused. Not finding any vent for his anger in 
words, he suddenly seized Bruce (who of the three 
stood nearest him) by the collar of his boating jersey, 
shook him as he might have done a baby, and almost 
before he was aware, pitched him into the river. In- 
stantly swinging round, he gave Lord Fitzurse a butt 
with his elbow, which sent his lordship tottering into 
the ditch on the other side, and while his wrath was 
still blazing, received in one eye a blow from Brogten’s 
strong fist which for an instant made him reel. 

But it was only for an instant, and then he repaid 
Brogten with a cuff which felled him to the ground. 
Brogten was mad with fury. At that moment the men 


JULIAN HOME. 


87 


were running round the corner, at the bend of the 
Iscam, in full career, and hundreds on both sides of 
the river must have seen him sprawl before the man’s 
blow. He sprang to his feet, and, blind with rage, 
lifted the clasp-knife with which he had cut the ropes. 
A second more, and it would have been buried to the 
handle in the right arm which, quick as lightning, the 
bargee raised to shield his face, when Brogten’s arm 
was seized from behind by Lillyston, who wrested the 
knife from him, and pitched it into the river. 

Brogten turned round, still unconscious what he was 
about. Julian stood nearest him, and he thought it 
was Julian who had disarmed him. Old hatred was 
suddenly joined to outrageous passion, and clenching 
his fist, he struck Julian in the face. Julian started 
back just in time to evade the full force of the blow, 
and fearing a second attack, suddenly tripped his 
aggressor as he once more rushed towards him. 

But now the full tide of men had reached the spot; 
the barge had drifted helplessly lengthwise across the 
stream, and an angry circle closed round the chief 
actors in the scene we have described, while a hundred 
hasty voices demanded what was the row, and what 
the bargee meant by “ stopping the race in that stupid 
way?” Meanwhile Bruce, wet and muddy, was de- 
claiming on one side, and Fitzurse, bruised and dirty, on 
the other, was stammering his uncomprehended oaths; 
while a dozen men were holding Brogten, who foiled 
a second time, and now in a dreadfully ungovernable 
passion, was struggling with the men who held him, 
and vowing vengeance against Julian and the bargee. 

It was no time for deliberation, nor are excited, 
hasty, and disappointed boys the most impartial of 
jurors. Julian and Lillyston were rapidly explaining 
the true state of the case to the few who were calm 
enough to listen ; but all that appeared to most of the 
bystanders was, that a bargee had spoiled the event of 
the day, and assaulted two or three undergraduates. 
A cry arose to duck the fellow in the muddiest angle of 
the river, and twentv hands were laid on his shoulder, 
to drag him off to his fate. But a sense of injustice, 


88 


JULIAN HOME. 


joined to strength and passion, are all but irresistible 
when their opponents are but half in earnest ; and 
violently exerting his formidable muscles, the man 
shook himself free with a determination, agility, and 
pluck which, by a visible logic, showed the men how 
cruel and cowardly it was to punish him before they 
knew anything of the rights of the case. Lillyston’s 
voice, too, began to be loudly heard, and several dons 
among the crowd exerted themselves to restore order 
out of the hubbub. 

There is nothing like a touch of manliness. A 
feeble, and fussy, and finnicking little proctor, who 
happened to be on the bank, was pompously endeavor- 
ing to assert his dignity, and make himself attended to. 
He was just beginning to get indignant at the laughing 
contempt with which his impotent efforts were received, 
and was asking men for their names and colleges in a 
futile sort of way, when a tall and stately tutor in the 
crowd raised his voice above the uproar, and said, 
“Silence, gentlemen, if you please, for a moment.” 
He was recognized and respected, and the men made 
room for him into the centre of the throng. 

“ Now, my man, just tell us what’s the matter.” 
The man was beginning to tell them how wantonly 
his ropes had been cut, and he himself insulted, when 
Bruce broke in, “ That’s a lie, you rascal ; we asked 
you to move, and you wouldn’t. I’ll have you in prison 
yet, my fine fellow, you’ll see.” 

“ And if I don’t make you pay for they ropes, you 
young pink and white monkey, my name ain’t Jem — 
that’s all.” 

“Did anybody see what really took place?” asked 
the don, cutting short the altercation. 

“Yes, I did,” said Lillyston instantly; “the fellow 
was civil enough, and began to back his horses the 
moment I told him there was a race, when these gentle- 
men ran up, abused him, struck him, and cut the 
ropes.” 

“Ay, it’s all very fine for you gentlefolk,” said the 
man with bitter scorn, “ to take away a poor man’s 
living for your pleasure. How do you think I ’m to 


JULIAN HOME. 


89 


pay for them ropes ? Am I to take the bread out of the 
children’s mouths, let alone being kicked and speered 

at? D you all, I ain’t afeared o’ none o’ you ; come 

on the whole lot o’ you to one. I ain’t afeard — not I,” 
he said again, glaring round like a bull at bay, and 
stripping an arm of iron strength. 

“ I never cut your ropes, you brute,” said Bruce, 
between his teeth, “though you wouldn’t move when 
we asked you civilly.” 

“What’s that , then,” said the man, pointing to a bit 
of rope two inches long which Bruce still held dang- 
ling in his hand. 

“ I’m afraid you forget the facts, Bruce, in your ex- 
citement,” said Lillyston, very sternly. 

“Facts or not, I’ll have you up for assault,” said 
Bruce affectedly, wringing the mud out of his wet 
sleeve. 

“Have me up for assault,” mimicked the man, try- 
ing to mince his broad rough accents into Bruce’s deli- 
cate tones ; and he condescended to add no more, but 
turned round to catch his horses, which had trotted 
through the open gate of a neighboring field, and were 
now quietly grazing. 

“I hope, gentlemen,” said Brogten, bluntly, “that 
you’re not going to believe that blackguard’s word 
against ours.” 

“You forget, sir,” said Mr. Norton, the tall don, 
“ that what the blackguard (as you are pleased to call 
him) said is confirmed by a gentleman here.” 

“ And impugned by three gentlemen,” said Bruce, 
who felt how thoroughly he was in disgrace. 

“ Do you mean to deny, Bruce, that you swore at 
the man first, and then cut his ropes, when he was 
already stopping his barge?” asked Lillyston. 

« I mean to say he wouldn’t move when we told him.” 

“I appeal to Home,” said Lillyston; “didn’t the 
man instantly stop when he understood why we 
wanted him to do so ?” 

“Yes,” said Julian, who, still dizzy with Brogten’s 
blow, was standing a little apart, “ I am bound to say 
that the man was entirely in the right.” 


90 


JULIAN HOME. 


“I am inclined to think so,” said Mr. Norton, with 
scorn in his eye ; and so saying, he took the little proc- 
tor’s arm, and strode away, while the crowd of under- 
graduates also broke up and streamed off in twos and 
threes. 

“Do you mean to pay that fellow for his rope, 
Bruce ? ” asked Lillyston ; “ if not, I do” 

“ Pay ! ” said Brogten, with an explosion of oaths, 
“I’ll pay you and your sizar friend there for this, 
depend upon it.” 

“We’re not afraid,” said Lillyston, quietly. Julian 
only answered the threat by a bow, and the two walked 
off to the bargee, who, in despair and anger, was knot- 
ting together the cut pieces of his rope. 

Lillyston slipped a sovereign into his hand, and told 
him how sorry he was for what had happened. 

“Thank you, sir,” said the man, humbly; “it’s a 
hard thing for a poor chap to be treated as I’ve been ; 
but you ’ re a rale gentleman.” 

“Well, do me one favor, then. Promise not to say 
a word to, or take any notice of, those three fellows 
as they pass you.” 

The man promised ; but there was no need to have 
done so, for furious as Brogten was, he and his com- 
panions were too crest-fallen to take any notice of 
the bargee in passing, except by contemptuous looks, 
which he returned with interest. On the whole, it 
struck them that they would not make a particularly 
creditable display in hall that evening, and therefore 
they partook, instead, of a sumptuous repast in the 
rooms of Lord Fitzurse, who made up for the dirt 
which they had been eating by the splendor of his 
entertainment. 

“ I’ll be even yet with that fellow Home,” muttered 
Brogten, as they were parting. 

“ He’s not w-w- worth it,” said the host. “ He’s a 
g-g-ghoul ; eh, Bruce — ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 



CHAPTER THE TENTH. 

CONTRASTS. 

“ And here was Labor his own bond slave ; Hope 
That never set the pains against the prize ; 

Idleness halting with his weary clog, 

And poor misguided Shame and witless Fear 
And simple Pleasure foraging for Death.” 

Wordsworth. The Prelude. 

Although Julian did not immediately feel, and had 
no particular reason to dread, the results of Brogten’s 
displeasure, yet it was very annoying to be on the same 
staircase with him. It was a constant reminder that 
there was one person, and he near at hand, who re- 
garded him as an enemy. For a time, indeed, Brogten 
tried a few practical jokes on his neighbor and quon- 
dam school-fellow, which gratified for the moment his 
desire for revenge. Thus he would empty the little 
jug of milk which stood every day before Julian’s door 
into the great earthenware pitcher of water which was 
usually to be found in the same position ; or he would 
make a surreptitious entry into his rooms, and amuse 
himself by upturning chairs and tables, turning pic- 
tures with their faces to the wall, and doing some- 
times considerable damage and mischief. Once Julian, 
on preparing to get into bed, found a neat little garden 
laid out for his reception between the sheets — flower- 
beds and gravel walks, all complete. This course of 
petty annoyance he bore, though not without a great 
struggle, in dignified and contemptuous silence. He 
looked Brogten firmly in the face whenever they 
chanced to meet, and never gave him the triumph of 
perceiving that his small arts of vexation had taken 

91 


92 


JULIAN HOME. 


the slightest effect. He merely smiled when the hot- 
headed Kennedy suggested retaliation, and would not 
allow Lillyston to try the effect of remonstrance. It 
was not long before Brogten became thoroughly 
ashamed that his malice should be tried and despised, 
and he would have proceeded to more overt acts of 
hatred had he not been one day informed by Lillyston 
that the Hartonians generally had heard of his pro- 
ceedings, and that if he continued them he would be 
universally cut. For, indeed, such practical jokes as 
Brogten attempted are now almost unknown at Cam- 
ford, and every man’s room is considered sacred in his 
absence. But although he desisted from this kind of 
malice, it was not long before Brogten was generally 
shunned by his former schoolfellows. He developed 
into such a thorough blackguard that, had it not been 
for his merits as an oarsman and a cricketer, even the 
countenance of Bruce and Lord Fitzurse would have 
been insufficient to prevent him from being deserted 
by all the undergraduates of St. Werner’s, except that 
small and wretched class who take refuge from vacuity 
in the society of cads, dog-fanciers, and grooms. 

Yet Brogten’s Ilarton education, idle as he had been, 
sufficed to make him see that he was sinking lower 
and lower, not only in the world’s estimation, but in 
his own. Unable to make the mental effort which 
the least approach to study would have required, he 
suffered his few intellectual faculties to grow more 
and more gross and stolid, and spent his mornings in 
smoking, drinking beer, or lounging in the rooms of 
some one as idle and discontented as himself. It was 
sad to see the change which even in his first term came 
over his face ; it was not the change from boyhood to 
youth, which gave a manlier outline to Julian’s fea- 
tures, but it was a look in which effrontery supplied 
the place of self-dependence, and coarseness was the 
substitute for strength. Beer in the morning and 
brandy in the evening, cards, and low company, and 
vice, made him sink into a degradation from which he 
was only redeemed by the still lingering ambition to 
excel in athletic sports, and by the manly exercises 


JULIAN HOME. 


93 


which rescued him for a time from such dissipation 
as would have incapacitated him from shining in the 
boat or in the field. 

Lillyston was a singular contrast with Brogten ; 
originally they were about equal in ability, position, 
and strength. They had entered school in the same 
form, and, until Julian came, they had generally been 
placed near each other in the quarterly examinations. 
Both of them were strong and active, and without be- 
ing clever or brilliant, they were both possessed of re- 
spectable powers of mind. Both of them had been in 
the Ifarton eleven, and now each of them was already 
in the second boat of their respective clubs ; but with 
all these similarities Lillyston was beginning to be one 
of the men most liked and respected among all the 
best sets of his own year, and was reading for honors 
with a fair chance of ultimate success, while Brogten 
was looked on as a low and stupid fellow, whose com- 
pany was discreditable, and whose doings were a dis- 
grace to his old school. 

The two presented much the same contrast as was 
also visible between Julian and Bruce. While Julian 
and Lillyston had mutually influenced each other for 
good, while they had been growing up together in 
warm and honorable friendship, thinking whatsoever 
things are pure and true and of good report, the other 
two had only fostered each other’s vanity, and rather 
encouraged than checked each other’s failings. At 
school they were always exchanging the grossest flat- 
tery, and the lessons and tendencies which each had 
derived from the other’s society were lessons of weak- 
ness and sin alone. And now Bruce was looked on at 
St. Werner’s as a vain, empty fellow, living on a re- 
putation for cleverness which he had never justified, 
— low, dressy, and extravagant, despised by the read- 
ing men (whose society he affected to avoid) for his 
weakness and want of resolution ; by the real athletes 
for his deficiency in strength and pluck, and by the 
aristocrats (whose rooms he most frequented) for the 
ill-concealed obscurity of his father’s origin, and the 
ill-understood sources of his wealth. Since he first 


94 


JULIAN HOME. 


astonished the men of his year by the brilliancy of his 
entertainments and the gorgeousness of his rooms, he 
had steadily declined in general estimation among all 
whose regard was most really valuable, and he would 
have found few among his immense acquaintance who 
cared as much for him as they did for his good dinners 
and choice wines. Julian, on the other hand, who 
knew far fewer men, could count among his new and 
old companions some real friends — friends who would 
cling to him in adversity as well as in prosperity, and 
who loved him for his own sake, whether his fortunes 
were in sunshine or in cloud. First among these 
newly-acquired friends he counted the names of Owen 
and Kennedy, among the old ones of Lillyston and De 
Yayne. But, besides these, he had been sought out 
by all the most distinguished men among the St. Wer- 
ner’s undergraduates, while Mr. Admer, who improved 
immensely on acquaintance, had introduced him to 
some of the most genial and least exclusive dons. Even 
Mr. Grayson used to address him with something 
approaching to warmth, and so high was his general 
reputation, that he had no difficulty in making the 
acquaintance of every man of his college whom he in 
the least cared to see or know. 

Brogten was one of those who perceived these con- 
trasts, and the bitter intense malice with which they 
filled him was one of the evil feelings which helped to 
drag him down from following out his occasional res- 
olutions for better things. 

Strange that a few weeks could produce such differ- 
ences ; but so it was. At the end of those few weeks 
Bruce went back to take part in his mother’s splendid 
theatricals and routs, with a consciousness of neg- 
lected opportunities and wasted time, even if his con- 
science laid no worse sins to his charge. Brogten went 
back, cursing himself and all around him, with the 
violent self-accusations of a reprobate obstinacy, a man 
in vice, though hardly more than a boy in years. 
Kennedy went back happy on the whole, happy above 
all in the certainty that he had made in Julian one 
noble friend. Lillyston went back happy, well-pleased 


JULIAN HOME. 


95 


with the sense of duty done, and the prime of life well 
and innocently enjoyed. And Julian went back in the 
same train with De Yayne, happy too, with a mind 
strengthened and expanded, with knowledge deepened 
and widened, with an honorable ambition opening 
before him, and friends and a fair position already 
won. All these results had sprung from those few 
and swiftly-gliding weeks. 

The Christmas time passed very pleasantly for the 
Homes. They had few relations, and Lady Vinsear 
had dropped all intercourse with them, but they were 
happy in themselves. Violet, too, had the pleasure of 
forming an acquaintance with Kennedy’s sister Eva, 
who, with her aunt, happened to be paying a short 
visit to a family in the neighborhood. Frank and 
Cyril were at home for their holidays, and the house 
and garden at lldown rang all day long with their 
merry voices and incessant games. Old Christmas 
observances were not yet obsolete in lldown, and Yule 
logs and royal feasts were the order of the day. The 
bright, clear, frosty air — the sparkling sea and freshen- 
ing wind — a lovely country, a united and cheerful 
family, and the delights of moderate study, made the 
weeks speed by in pure enjoyment. With his mother, 
his brothers, and Violet, Julian felt the need of no 
other society, but he corresponded with Kennedy and 
other college friends, and saw a great deal of Lord De 
Vayne, who continually rode over to pass the Sunday 
with them at lldown, and sometimes persuaded ail 
the Homes to come and spend the day with him and his 
mother in the beautiful but lonely grounds of Uther 
Hall. 

Whenever they accepted the invitation, the young 
and pensive viscount seemed another man. He would 
join in the boys’ mirth with the most joyous alacrity, 
and talked to Violet with such vivacity that none who 
saw him would believe what a shade of melancholy 
usually hung over his mind. His life had been spent 
in seclusion, and he had never yet seen any to whom 
his heart turned with such affection as he felt for 
Julian and Violet. His mother observed it, and often 


96 


JULIAN HOME. 


thought that if she saw in Violet Home the future 
Lady De Vayne, a source of happiness was laid up for 
her only son which would fulfil, and more than fulfil, 
her fondest prayers. It never occurred to her to think 
that he would do better to choose a bride among the 
noblest and wealthiest houses of England, rather than 
in the orphan family of a poor and unknown clergy- 
man. What she sought for him was goodness and 
usefulness, not grandeur or riches. Loneliness and 
much sorrow had taught her at how slight a value 
rank and wealth are to be reckoned in any high or 
true estimate of the meaning of human life ; nor did 
it add greatly to her desire for such a match that 
Violet, with her bright hair, and soft eyes, and grace- 
ful figure — with her sweet musical voice, and the rip- 
pling silver of her laugh, and the rich imagery which 
filled her fancy — might well have fulfilled the ideal of 
a poet’s dream. But Violet was still very young, 
and none of Lady De Vayne’s hopes had ever for an 
instant crossed her mind. 

Julian was at this time, and had been for some 
months, intensely occupied with the thought and desire 
of winning the Clerkland scholarship, a university 
scholarship of £60 a year, open to general competition 
among all the undergraduates of less than one year’s 
standing. This scholarship was the favorite success 
of Camford life. It stamped at once a man’s position 
as one of the most prominent scholars of his year, and 
as the names of many remarkable men were found in 
the list of those who had already obtained it, it gave 
a strong prestige of future distinction and success. 
Julian had a peculiar reason for longing to gain it, 
because, with hisHarton scholarship, it would not only 
enable him at once to enter his name as a pensioner, 
instead of a sizar, at St. Werner’s, but even make him 
independent of all help from his family and guardians. 
These would have been reasons sufficient to account 
for his passionate desire for this particular distinction, 
even independently of his natural wish to justify the 
general opinion of his abilities, and the eager ambition 
caused by the formidable numbers of the other com- 


JULIAN HOME. 


97 


petitors. In short, at this time, to obtain the Clerkland 
scholarship was the most prominent personal desire in 
Julian’s heart, and could some genius have suddenly 
offered him the fulfilment of any one wish, this would 
undoubtedly have been the first to spring to his lips. 
He looked with emulation, almost with envy, on those 
who had won it before him ; he almost knew by heart 
the list of Clerkland scholars ; and when he returned 
to Camford, constantly discussed the chances of success 
in favor of the different candidates. Do not blame 
him ; his motives were all high and blameless, although 
he at length turned over this thought so often in his 
mind as to recur to it with almost selfish iteration, and 
to regard success in this particular struggle as the one 
thing wanting to complete, or even to create his happi- 
ness. 

He could not refrain from mentioning it at home, 
although for the sake of preventing disappointment, 
he generally avoided dwelling on any of his school or 
college struggles. Depreciating his own abilities, it 
made him doubly anxious to find that not only did his 
St. Werner’s contemporaries regard him as the favorite 
candidate, and bet upon him in the sporting circles 
(although Brogten furiously gave the largest odds 
against him), but, what was worse, his own family, 
always proud of him, seemed to regard his triumph as 
certain. Thus circumstanced, and most fondly avoid- 
ing every possibility of causing pain or disappointment 
to that thrice-loved circle of which he regarded him- 
self as the natural protector and head, he was more 
than ever determined to do his very utmost to prevent 
failure, and give them the lasting pride and pleasure 
which they would all receive by seeing his name in the 
public papers as Clerkland scholar. 

“ Come, Julian, and let’s have a row or a sail,” said 
Cyril one morning to him, as he sat at work. “ Frank 
and I have nothing to do to-day.” 

“ Not to-day, Cyril, my boy. I really must do some 
work; you know De Yayne made me ride with him 
yesterday, and I’ve done very little the last day or 
two.” 

7 




98 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ I wish I liked work as yon do, Julian.” 

“ It isn’t only that I like work (though I do),” said 
Julian ; “but you know a good deal depends on it.” 

“ Oh ! I know ! ” said Cyril ; “ you mean the Clerk- 
land scholarship; but never mind, Julian, Lord De 
Yayne told me you were sure of that.” 

“Did he?” said Julian, a little anxiously; “then 
for goodness’ sake, don’t believe him. It’s very kind 
of him to say so — but he’s quite mistaken.” 

“ Ah, you always say so beforehand, you know. 
You used to say that about the Harton scholarship, 
Julian, and yet you see? Do come.” 

“Well, I’ll come,” said Julian, smiling a little 
sadly. “ But, Cyril, don’t, pray, say anything of that 
kind to mother or to Violet, for if I should fail it would 
make me doubly sad.” 

Cyril, thanking Julian, and still laughingly pro- 
phesying success, ran out to tell Frank ; and when he 
had gone, Julian stamped his foot passionately on the 
ground, and said half aloud, “ I will get this Clerkland, 
I will get it, I must get it.” 

He paused a moment, and then raising his eyes and 
hands to heaven, prayed that “ God would do for him 
that which was best for his highest welfare ; ” but 
even as he prayed, he secretly determined that obtain- 
ing the Clerkland scholarship was, and must neces- 
sarily be, the best piece of worldly prosperity that 
could possibly happen to him. 



i , 



CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. 

SCREWED IN. 


rjrot 6 xaXdv aAeurov dvaiprjtreaOai tpsXXev 
ypuaeov, arupwTov' xa\ 8rj per a ye pah even pa 

o<ppa Tzioi oivoio 

din a? di oi ex7ceae yeipo$. 

Hom. Od. xxii. 11. 

Reader, if the latter part of the preceding chapter 
has been dull to you, it is because you have never en- 
tered into the devouring ambition which, in a matter 
of this kind, actuates a young man’s heart when he 
is aiming at his first grand distinction — an ambition 
which, if selfishly encouraged, becomes dangerous both 
to health and peace, and works powerfully, perhaps by a 
merciful provision, to the defeat of its own darling hope. 

As long as Julian had been at home, a thousand 
objects helped to divert his thoughts from their one 
cherished desire ; but when he returned to Camford, 
finding the Clerkland a frequent subject of discussion 
among the men, even in hall, and constantly meeting 
others who were as absorbed in the thought of the 
approaching examination as himself, he once more fell 
into the vortex, and thought comparatively of little else. 

As yet he had had no means of measuring himself 
with others, except so far as the lecture-room enabled 
him to judge of the abilities of some few in his own 
college. Under these circumstances all conjecture 
might have seemed to be idle ; but somehow or other 
at Camford, by a sort of intuition, the exact place a man 
will ultimately take is often prophesied from the first 
with wonderful accuracy. St. Werner’s being by far 



100 


JULIAN HOME. 


the largest college at Camford, supplied the majority 
of the candidates, and Julian, Owen, and Kennedy 
were all three mentioned as likely to be first; but the 
rival ranks of St. Margaret’s boasted their champions 
also, and almost every small college nursed some pro- 
digy of its own, for whom it vehemently predicted an 
easy and indisputable success. 

Owen was the competitor whom Julian most really 
feared. Educated at Roslyn, a comparatively small 
school, his scholarship was not so ready and polished as 
that acquired by the training of the large public schools ; 
but, on the other hand, he had improved greatly in the 
short time he had been at St. Werner’s, and besides 
his sound knowledge, he had a strong-headed common 
sense, and a clearness and steadiness of purpose, more 
valuable than a quick fancy and refined taste. In 
composition, and in all the lighter and more graceful 
requirements of a classical examination, Julian had an 
undoubted superiority, but Owen was his equal, if not 
his master, in the power of unravelling intricacies and 
understanding logic; and, besides this, Owen was a 
better mathematician, and, although classics had con- 
siderable preponderance, yet one mathematical paper 
always formed part of the Clerkland examination. 
Kennedy who, if lie had properly employed his time, 
wotild have been no mean rival to either of them, had 
unfortunately been so idle, and continued to be so gay 
and idle even for the weeks immediately preceding the 
examination, that they all felt his chance to be gone. 
He acknowledged the fact himself, with something 
between a laugh and a sigh, and only threatening to 
catch them both up in the classical tripos, he resigned 
all hope for himself, and threw all his wishes into the 
scale of Julian’s endeavors. And although Owen was 
liked and respected, there was no doubt that Julian 
was regarded throughout the university as the popular 
candidate; the Hartonians especially, who had carried 
off the prize for several years, were confident that he 
would win them another victory. 

As the time drew near, Julian became more and 
more feverish with eagerness, and his friends feared 


JUL IAN HOME. 


101 


that lie would hinder, by over-reading, his real proba- 
bility of success. Kennedy felt this most strongly, but 
being himself engaged in the competition, was afraid 
that any attempt to divert Julian’s thoughts would not 
have a disinterested look. Lillyston and De Yayne, 
unrestrained by such motives, did all they could to 
take him from his books, and amuse him by turning 
his attention to other subjects ; but with such strong 
reasons for exertion, and so much depending on success 
or failure, the Clerkland scholarship continued ever 
the prominent subject of Julian’s thoughts. 

At last the long looked for week arrived. After 
chapel on the Sunday morning, De Yayne invited him- 
self to breakfast with Julian, and continued in his com- 
pany the greater part of the day, going with him to the 
university sermon. lie entirely forbade Julian even to 
allude more than once to the coming examination, and 
managed in the evening to get him to come to his rooms, 
where, with some other Ilartonians and Kennedy, they 
spent a very pleasant evening. 

“Good-night,” he said to Julian, as he strolled with 
him to his staircase across the starlit court; “don’t 
stay up to-night. In quietness and confidence shall be 
your strength.” 

The examination was to last a week, and Julian rose 
for it refreshed and cheerful on Monday morning. The 
papers suited him excellently, and his hopes rose higher 
and higher as he felt that in each paper lie had done to 
the utmost of his knowledge and ability. He had not 
been able to afford a private tutor during the term, with 
whom he might have discussed the papers, but he sent 
his Iambics and Latin verse to Mr. Garden at Harton, 
who wrote back a most favorable and encouraging 
judgment of them, and seemed to regard Julian’s success 
as certain. Julian had implicit confidence in hisopinion, 
for Mr. Carden entered very warmly into all his hopes 
and wishes, and kept up with him an affectionate cor- 
respondence, which had helped him out of many 
intellectual difficulties, and lessened the force of many 
a temptation. 

The papers usually lasted from nine till twelve in 


102 


JULIAN HOME. 


the morning, and from two to four in the afternoon. 
It was on the Friday morning, when only three more 
papers remained, that Julian found Mr. Carden’s kind 
and hopeful letter lying on his breakfast- table at eight 
o’clock; he read it with a glow of pleasure, because he 
knew that he could rely thoroughly on the accuracy and 
truth of his old tutor’s judgment, and as he read and 
re-read it, his hopes rose higher and higher. Finishing 
breakfast, he began to build castles in the air, and to 
imagine to himself the delight it would be to write and 
tell the Doctor and Mr. Carden of his new leaf to the 
Harton laurels. Never before had he a more reasonable 
ground for favorable expectations, and he began almost 
to run over in his mind the sort of letter he would 
write, and the kind of things he would say. Leaning 
over his window-sill, he enjoyed the cool feeling of the 
early spring breeze on his brow and hair, and then find- 
ing by his watch that it was time to start, he took his 
cap and gown, and prepared to sally out to the Senate- 
house. 

It was the custom of the gyp, when he had laid 
breakfast, and put the kettle on the fire, to go away 
and “sport the oak” (i.e., shut the outer door), so as 
to prevent any one from coming into the rooms until 
their owner was awake and dressed. Julian therefore 
was not surprised to see his door “sported,” but was 
surprised to find that, when he lifted the latch, the 
door did not open to his touch. He pushed it with 
some force, and then kicked it with his fcot to see if 
some stone or coal had not caught against it, but the 
door still remained obstinately closed; he put his 
shoulder against if, fancying that some heavy weight 
like the coal-box or water-pitcher might have been 
placed outside, — but all in vain ; the thick door did 
not even stir, and then there flashed upon Julian the 
bitter truth that he had been screwed in. lie under- 
stood now the stifled titter which he fancied he had 
heard after one of his most violent efforts to get out. 

In one instant, before he had time to think, a fit of 
blind and passionate fury had clouded and overpowered 
Julian’s whole mind. Almost unconscious of what he 


JULIAN HOME. 


103 


was doing, he kicked the door with all his might ; he 
forgot everything but the one burning determination 
to get out at all hazards, and to wreak on Brogten, 
whom he felt to be the author of his calamity, the 
punishment he had deserved. But the thick oak door, 
screwed evidently with much care, and in many 
places, resisted all his efforts, and no one came to help 
him from outside. The gyp, who was usually about, 
happened to have gone on an errand ; Jhe staircase 
was one of the most secluded in the college; the 
Fellow who was Julian’s nearest neighbor had “gone 
down” for a few days, audit was improbable that any 
one even heard him except Brogten, to whom, he 
thought, every sound of his angry violence would be 
perfect music. 

All was useless, and Julian, as he strode up and 
down the room, clenched his hands, and bit his lips in 
passionate excitement. Suddenly it struck him that 
lie would escape by the window ; but looking out for the 
purpose, he found that, when he had jumped on the 
sloping roof below him, he was still thirty feet above 
the ground, which, in that place, was not the turf of 
the bowling-green, but a hard gravel road. Giving up 
the attempt in despair, he sat down, and covered his 
face with his hands ; but instantly the picture of the 
senate-house, with the sixty candidates who were 
trying for the scholarship, all writing at some new 
paper — while he was thus cut off (as he thought) from 
the long-desired accomplishment of all his hopes — 
rose before his eyes, and springing up once more, he 
seized the poker, and raising it over his shoulder like 
a hammer, brought down the heavy iron knob with a 
crash on the oaken panels. He struck again and 
again, but by a shower of fierce blows, could only 
succeed in covering the door with deep round dents. 
Finally he seized the heaviest chair in the room, and 
dashed it fiercely with one heavy drive against the 
unyielding oak ; a second blow shivered the chair to 
splinters, and Julian, a compulsory prisoner* at that 
excited moment, flung himself on a sofa, angry and 
despairing. 


104 


JULIAN HOME. 


Full twenty minutes had been occupied by bis futile 
efforts, and for a few moments longer he sat still in a 
stupor of grief and rage. Meanwhile, several of the 
other competitors for the Clerkland had noticed his 
absence in the senate-house, and Owen and Kennedy 
kept directing anxious glances to the door, and dread- 
ing that he was ill. At last half an hour had elapsed, 
and Kennedy, unable any longer to endure the sus- 
pense, went up to the examiner and said — 

“One of the candidates is absent, sir. Would you 
allow me to go and inquire the reason?” 

“Who is it?” asked the examiner. 

“ Home, sir.” 

“ Indeed. But I am afraid I cannot allow you to 
leave the senate-house ; the rules, you know, on this 
subject are necessarily very strict.” 

“Then, sir, I will merely show up what I have 
written, for I am sure there must be some unusual 
reason for Home’s absence.” 

“ O no, Mr. Kennedy, pray don’t do so,” said the 
examiner, who knew how well Kennedy had been do- 
ing; “I will send the university marshal to inquire 
for Mr. Home ; it is a very unusual compliment to 
pay him, but I think it may be as well to do so.” 

It so happened that, as the marshal crossed the 
court to Julian’s rooms, Lillyston and De Vayne, who 
were strolling towards the grounds, caught sight of 
him, and went with much curiosity to inquire the 
object of his errand. 

“ Home not in the senate-house ! ” said Lillyston, on 
hearing the marshal’s answer ; “ good heavens, what 
can be the matter ! ” and without waiting to hear 
more, he darted to Julian’s door, and called his name. 

“ What do you want?” said Julian in a fretful and 
angry voice. 

“ Why are you sported ? and why aren’t you in for 
the Clerkland?” 

“ Can’t you see, then ?” 

“ What ! so you are screwed in ? ” said Lillyston in 
deep surprise; “wait three minutes, Julian, three 
minutes, and I will let you out.” 


JULIAS HOMS. 


105 


He sprang downstairs, four steps at a time, bor- 
rowed a screwdriver at the porter’s lodge, was back in 
a moment, and then with quick and skilful hand he 
drew out, one after another, the screws which had been 
driven deep into the door. 

Julian lifted the latch inside, and Lillyston saw 
with surprise and pain his scared and wild glance. 
Julian said not a word, but rushed past his friend, and 
burst furiously into Brogten’s room. Fortunately 
Brogten was not in, for the moment he heard steps 
approaching, he had purposely gone out; but Lillyston 
followed Julian, and said — 

“ Come, this is folly, Julian ; you have not a 
moment to lose. You will be already nearly an hour 
late, and remember that the Clerkland may depend 
upon it.” 

He suffered himself to be led, but as he walked he 
was still silent, and seemed as though he were trying 
to gulp down some hard knot that rose in his throat. 
His expression was something totally different from 
anything that Lillyston had ever observed in him, 
even from a boy, and his feet seemed to waver under 
him as he walked. 

De Vayne joined them in the court, and was quite 
startled to see Julian looking so ill. He saw that it 
was no time to trouble him with idle inquiries, and 
merely pressed him to come into his rooms and take 
some wine before going to do the paper. Julian 
silently complied. The kind-hearted young viscount 
took out a bottle of choice old wine, of which Julian 
swallowed off a tumblerful, and then, without speak- 
ing a word, strode off to the senate-house, which he 
reached pale and agitated, attracting, as he entered, the 
notice and commiseration of all present. 

The examiner, with a kind word of encouragement, 
and an inquiry as to the cause of his delay, which 
Julian left unanswered, promised to allow him in the 
evening as much additional time for doing the paper 
as he had already lost. Julian bowed, and walked to 
his place. 

And now that he was seated, with the paper before 


106 


JULIAN HOME. 


him, he found himself in a condition to do nothing. 
His mind was in a tumult of wrath and sorrow. Bitter 
sorrow that his hopes should be shattered ; fiery wrath 
that any one should have treated him with such 
malignant cruelty. His brain swam giddily, and his 
head throbbed with violent pain. He had been guilty 
of the great folly of almost staking his happiness on 
the probability of success ; this success seemed now to 
have been basely wrenched out of his grasp ; and the 
consciousness that his whole appearance was wild, and 
that several eyes were upon him, unnerved him so 
completely, that he was quite unable to collect or con- 
trol his scattered senses. He made but little progress. 
The clock of St. Mary’s told the passing hours, and 
at twelve Julian found himself with nothing written 
except a few half-finished and incoherent sentences, 
which he was ashamed to show up. Dashing the nib 
of his pen on the desk, he split it to pieces ; and then, 
tearing up his papers, was hurrying out when the 
voice of the examiner suddenly recalled him. 

“You have not shown me up any papers, Mr. 
Home.” 

“ No, sir,” he answered sullenly. 

“ Indeed ! But why ? ” 

“ I have not done any, sir.” 

“Really. I am sorry for that. It is a serious 
matter, for you have been doing remarkably well, 
and Are you not feeling well?” 

“ No, sir, not exactly.” 

“Hum! Well, it is a great pity; a great pity; a 

very great pity. However ” There seemed to be 

no more to say, and as Julian’s mind was in too turbu- 
lent a state to allow of his being communicative, he 
did not trust himself to make any remark, and left 
the room. 

Kennedy, who came up with him as he went out, 
asked what was the matter ; but as he only answered 
with an impatient gesture, and evidently seemed to 
wish to be alone, Kennedy left him and went to inquire 
of Lillyston what had happened, while Julian hastened 
to the solitude of his own room, and breaking with his 


JULIAN HOME . 


107 


poker one of the outer hinges of his door, to secure 
himself from a second imprisonment, flung himself on 
a chair, and pressed his hands to his burning forehead. 
In his bitterness of soul he half determined to abandon 
all further attempt to gain the Clerkland, and dwelt, 
with galling recurrences, on the anguish of defeated 
aims. But the sound of the clock striking the hour of 
examination started him into sudden effort, and almost 
mechanically he seized his cap and gown, and went 
out without food and unrefreshed. 

Although he endeavored, with all his might, to 
shake off all thought of the morning’s insult and mis- 
fortune, he only partially succeeded, and when he 
folded up his papers, he felt that the fire and energy 
which had shone so conspicuously during the earlier 
days of the examination, and had imparted such 
strength and brilliancy to his efforts, were utterly ex- 
tinguished, and had left him wandering and weak. 
When the time was over, he went to De Vayne’s rooms, 
and said abruptly — 

“ De Vayne, will you lend me your riding-whip ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said De Vayne, starting up to meet 
him. “Are you going to have a ride? I wish you 
would ride my horse; I’ll hire another, and come with 
you.” 

“ No ; I don’t want a ride.” 

“ What do you want the whip for, then ? ” said De 
Vayne uneasily. 

“Nothing. Let me go; it must be time for yon to 
go to hall.” 

“ I’m not going to dine in hall to-day,” said De 
Vayne, “Dining at the high table, with none but 
dons to talk to, is dull work for an undergraduate. 
Stop ! you shall dine with me here, Julian. 1 know 
you won’t care to go to hall to-day. Nay, you shall,” 
he said, putting his back against the door ; “ I shall be 
as dull as night without you.” 

He made Julian stay, for it happened that at that 
moment his gyp brought up dinner, and Julian, hungry 
and weary, was tempted to sit down. De Vayne, who 
only too well divined his reason for borrowing the 


108 


JULIAN HOME. 


whip was delighted at having succeeded in detaining 
him, for he knew that the only time when Julian 
would be likely to meet Brogten was immediately after 
hall. 

Wiling away the time with exquisite tact — talking 
to him without pressing him to talk much in reply — 
turning his thoughts to indifferent subjects, until he 
had succeeded in arousing his interest — the young 
viscount detained his guest till evening, and then per- 
suaded him to have tea. Lord De Vayne played well 
on the piano, and knowing Julian’s passion for music, 
was rewarded for his unselfish efforts by complete 
success in rousing his attention. He played some of 
the finest passages of a recent and beautiful oratorio, 
until Julian almost forgot his troubles, and was ready 
to talk with more freedom and in a kindlier mood. 

“ You surely won’t want the whip now,” said De 
Yayne in some dismay, as Julian picked it up on say- 
ing good-night. 

“ Yes, I shall,” answered Julian, “ Good-night I ” 




CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. 

A GUST OP THE SOUL. 

“ Once more will the wronger, at this last of all. 

Dare to say ‘ I did wrong,’ rising in his fall ? ” 

Browning. 

The story of Brogten’s practical joke and the cir- 
cumstances which made it so unusually disgraceful, 
spread with lightning-like rapidity through St. Wer- 
ner’s College ; and when he swaggered into hall with 
his usual self-confident air, he was surprised to find 
himself met with cold and even with frowning looks. 
Snatches of conversation which went on around him 
soon showed him the reason of the general disappro- 
bation ; and when he learnt how violently the current 
of popular opinion was beginning to set against him, 
and how unfavorable a view was taken of his conduct, 
he began seriously to regret that he had given the 
reins to his malice. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder now if Home were to lose the 
Clerkland ; he was sure of it before this morning,” said 
one. 

“ What a cursed shame ! ” echoed another. “ I never 
in my life heard a more blackguard trick. That fellow 
Brogten has lost the ITartonians the scholarship ; lucky 
if he hasn’t lost it to St. Werner’s too. Perhaps that 
Benedict man will get it.” 

“I say, Kennedy,” said a third, “if I were you or 
Lillyston, or any other of Home’s particular friends, 
I’d duck Brogten.” 

“ Let’s wait till we see whether Home does lose the 
scholarship first,” said Lillyston. “ If he does, Brogten 
deserves anything ; but I have strong hopes yet.” 

109 


110 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ I know Home,” said Kennedy, “ and he would never 
forgive such an interference, or I declare I should be 
inclined to do it.” 

“ I should like to see you do it,” thundered Brogten, 
from a farther end of the table. 

“ I have just given my reasons for not seeing fit to 
do it,” said Kennedy, with a curl of the lip. “By the 
by, Mr. Brogten,” he continued sarcastically, “ I hope 
that you don’t, after this, expect to be paid any of the 
bets you have made against Home’s getting the Clerk- 
land?” 

“There’s my betting-book,” replied Brogten, flinging 
it at Kennedy, whom it struck in the face, and who 
took no further notice of the insult than to pick up the 
book, and throw it into the great brazier, full of glow- 
ing charcoal, which stands in the centre of St. Werner’s 
hall. 

“ Don’t do that, confound you ! ” cried Brogten, 
springing up. “ Do you think there are no bets in it 
but those about the Clerkland ? ” 

“Keep your missiles to yourself, then,” said Ken- 
nedy, while Brogten burnt his fingers in the vain at- 
tempt to rescue his book. 

“ I hope you’ve at least hedged, or behaved as 
judiciously in the case of your other bets as in those 
about the Clerkland,” suggested one of his sporting 
friends. 

This last sneer and insinuation was too much, and 
it galled the proud man to the quick to hear the laugh 
of scorn which followed it. He turned round, seized 
his cap, and flinging at Kennedy a look of intense and 
concentrated hatred, left the hall, and rushed up to his 
rooms. 

To do Brogten justice, he had never intended for a 
moment to affect Julian’s chance of ultimate success, 
when he enjoyed the mean satisfaction of screwing up 
his door. He had indeed regarded him with a dislike, 
which received a tinge of deeper intensity from the 
envy, and even admiration, with which it was largely 
mingled. But although he had calculated that his 
trick might be more telling and offensive if done at 


JULIAN HOME . 


Ill 


this particular opportunity, and although he had quite 
sufficient grudge against his former school-fellow to 
wish him a deep annoyance, yet he would never have 
dreamed of wilfully thwarting his most cherished aims, 
or materially alfecting his prospects and position. So 
vile a malice would have been intolerable to any one, 
and the thought of it was thoroughly intolerable to 
Brogten, in whom all gleams of honorable feeling were 
no by means extinguished, however dormant they might 
seem. It had never entered into his thoughts to antic- 
ipate the violent consequences which his act had pro- 
duced; and when told of Julian’s passion and suffering, 
he had felt such real remorse that he had even half- 
intended to wait for him as he went to hall, and there 
(in a quasi-public manner, since some men were sure 
to be standing about on the hall steps) to endure the 
mortification of expressing his regret to the man whom 
he had chosen to treat as his enemy. . But when he 
found himself cut and jeered at — when he was even 
met by the suggestion that he had intended basely to 
serve his own pecuniary interests at Julian’s expense 
— a method of swindling which he had never for one 
instant contemplated — all his softer and better feel- 
ings vanished at once, and created a brutal hardness 
in his heart which now once more he was striving 
in solitude to mollify or remove. 

And he succeeded so far that, while brooding savagely 
over the venomous shafts of sarcasm and ridicule with 
which Kennedy had wounded him, he gradually soft- 
ened his feelings towards Julian, by transferring them 
in tenfold virulence against Julian’s nearest friend. 
Home and he had been school-fellows after all, and 
Julian had never done him any wrong; on the con- 
trary, he liked the boy; he remembered distinctly 
how the first seeds of ill-will against him had been 
sown by the reserve with which Julian, as a school- 
fellow, had received his advances. Without being rude 
and uncivil, he had yet managed to hold aloof from 
him, and as Brogten was in some repute at Harton when 
Home came, and was moreover an Hartonian of much 
longer standing, his sensitive pride had been stung by 


112 


JULIAN HOME. 


the fact that the “new fellow,” whose pleasant face 
and manners had attracted his notice, did not at once 
and gratefully embrace his proffered friendship. Cir- 
cumstances had tended to widen the breach between 
them, but secretly he liked Home still, and would have 
gladly been his friend. “ And, after all,” he thought, 
“ Home has never once retaliated any injury which I 
have undoubtedly done him, 'lie has never done me any 
harm. Even in the affair at the boats, he only did 
what was quite justifiable, and 1 was far more in the 
wrong than he was when I struck him. And now 
they all say I shall have prevented him from getting 
this confounded Clerkland. And I know how he longed 
for it, how much all his hopes and wishes were fixed 
upon it. Upon my word, when I come to think of it, 
it was a very blackguard thing of me to do, and I wish 
I had been at the bottom of the sea before I did it. I 
think — yes — I think I’ll go and see Home, and ask his 
pardon ; yes, upon my word I need his forgiveness, 
and would give a good deal to get it. He’s a grand 
fellow after all. I wish he’d take me as a friend. I 
should be infinitely better for it ; and I will be better, 
too.” And as he thus reasoned with himself, Brogten 
began to yearn for better things, and for Julian’s 
friendship as a means of helping him to higher aims ; 
and he remembered the lines : — 

“ I would we were boys as of old, 

In the field by the fold ; 

His outrage, God’s patience, man’s scorn, 

Were so easily borne.” 

So his thoughts ran on, but when it occurred to him 
that no such humiliation on his part would perhaps go 
very far to mend the general disgust with which he 
had been greeted, he began to waver again. “ What 
business had they to assume that I meant the worst. 
I may be a bad fellow, but (and a mental oath followed) 
I’m not a black-leg after all. That fellow Kennedy — 
curse him— I’ll be even with him yet. I swear that 
he shall rue it. I’ll be a very fiend in the vengeance 
I take— curse him ! ” And stamping his heel furiously 


JULIAN HOME. 113 

on the floor, lie swallowed some raw brandy, and 
began to pace up and down his room. 

The conflict of his thoughts lasted, almost without 
intermission, till evening. Finally, however, his heart 
softened towards Julian, as he ran over in his mind all 
the circumstances of the day. Cheating his conscience 
with the fancy that he was conquering his feelings of 
revenge and hate, while he was only displacing them 
with others of a deeper dye, he at last determined to 
go up at once to Julian’s room, ask his pardon openly, 
honestly, and unreservedly, confess his past unworthy 
malice, and obtain, if possible, at least, Julian’s forgive- 
ness, perhaps even his friendship, in return for so great 
a victory over himself. 

It was a victory over himself, and no slight one. For 
at least five years he had been nursing into dislike an 
inward feeling of respect for his enemy, and now to 
humble himself so completely before him required a 
struggle of which he had hardly supposed himself 
capable, and of which he was secretly a little proud. 
It inspired him with better hopes for the future, and 
gave him a pledge of combating successfully other 
vicious propensities which had gained an ascendancy 
over him. 

Hesitatingly he went up to Julian’s rooms ; he saw 
the broken door, and it made him waver. All was 
silence inside, but still he hoped that Julian was in, 
because he felt sure that he should never persuade his 
natural pride to consent to such a sacrifice again. But 
yet, what should he say? he had been thinking of a 
thousand set forms of apology, but they all vanished, 
as with a beating heart, he knocked, a little loudly, at 
the door. 

Julian, too, had been brooding on the events of the 
day, and fanning every now and then into fierce bursts 
of flame the dying embers of his morning’s indigna- 
tion. lie took the worst view, and had every reason 
to take the worst view, of Brogten’s intentions. lie 
had received at his hands many wrongs, and s*n in- 
civility as unvarying as it was undeserved. Of course 
he could not tell that this rudeness was but the cover 
8 


114 


JULIAN HOME. 


of a real desire for cordiality between them, and now 
he fully believed that Brogten had intentionally, de- 
liberately, and with malice prepense, formed a deep- 
laid scheme to dash from his lips the cup of happiness 
as he was in the very act of tasting it. The success 
which had seemed in his very grasp would have re- 
moved the poverty, which had been one of the severest 
trials, not to himself only, but to those whom he most 
dearly loved ; it was the thing — the one thing — of which 
he had thought, and for which he had prayed. “And 
now it was torn from him,” so he thought, “by this 
mean and dastardly villain.” 

He had determined to horse-whip Brogten, at all 
hazards, though he knew that Brogten was flu* stronger 
than himself. De Vay lie’s manoeuvre had disconcerted 
his intention, for he could not carry it out in cold blood ; 
but even now he felt by no means sure that he was 
right to take passively an insult which, if unresented, 
might, he thought, be repeated some other time, and 
which, if frequently repeated, would render college 
life wholly intolerable. All this was floating through 
his mind when there came a loud — he took it for an 
insolent — knock at the door, and his enemy stood 
before him. 

His enemy stood before him, humbled and remorse- 
ful, with the words of apology on his lips, and his heart 
full of such emotions as might have enabled Julian to 
convert him from an enemy into a lasting and grateful 
friend. But when he saw him, in one instant un- 
reasoning and headlong anger had again seized Julian’s 
mind — the more easily because he had already yielded 
to it once. Without stopping to hear a word — without 
catching the gentler tone of Brogten’s rough voice — 
without noticing his downcast expression of counte- 
nance — Julian sprang up, assumed that Brogten had 
come to ridicule or even insult him, glared at him, 
clenched his teeth, and then, seizing De Vayne’s riding- 
whip, laid it without mercy about Brogten’s shoulders. 

During the first few blows Brogten was disarmed 
by intense surprise. Of all receptions, this was the 
only one which it had never occurred to him to con- 


JULIAN HOME. 


115 


template. He had imagined Julian bitter, sarcastic, 
cold ; he had prepared himself for a torrent of passion- 
ate and overwhelming invective; he had thought how 
to behave if Julian remained silent, or rejected with 
simple contempt his stammered apology ; but to be 
horse- whipped by one so much weaker than himself — 
by one whom he remembered to have pitied and patron- 
ized when he came to Harton, a delicate rosy-cheeked 
boy — this he had certainly never thought of. Julian 
had almost expended his rage in half a dozen wild 
blows before Brogten was startled from his surprise 
into a consciousness of his position. 

But when he did realize it, all the demon took pos- 
session of his heart. He seized Julian by the collar, 
wrenched the whip out of his hand, and raised the 
silver knob at the head of the handle. What fearful 
hurt Julian might have received from so heavy a wea- 
pon in so powerful a hand, or how far Brogten’s fury 
might have transported him, none can tell, but at that 
very moment he heard a step on the stairs, which ar- 
rested his violence, and the moment after Lillyston 
entered. 

“What!” said Lillyston indignantly, as he caught 
the almost diabolical expression of Brogten’s face. 
“ Not content with doing your best to ruin Home, you 
are using personal violence to one not so strong as 
yourself. Come, sir, drop that whip, or take the con- 
sequences.” 

“ Stop, Hugh,” said Julian sullenly ; “ I horse- 
whipped him first.” 

“ You ! ” said Lillyston. 

“Yes,” answered Brogten slowly, while his voice 
shook with passion; “yes, he did horse-whip me, and 
I took it. Note that, you Lillyston, and don’t think 
I’m afraid of you. And as for you, Home, listen to me. 
I came here solely to tell you that though I screwed 
you in, I never dreamt that such results would fol- 
low. I never dreamt — so help me, God! — of doing 
more than causing you ten minutes’ annoyance ; and 
how, when I was told how it had hindered you in the 
examination, I was heartily sorry and ashamed of 


116 


JULIAN HOME. 


what I had done, and ” — he began to speak lower and 
faster, as the remembrance of a better mood came over 
him — “ and I came here, Home, to ask your forgive- 
ness. Yes ; I to beg pardon of you , and humbly and 
honestly too. And now you see how you have received 
me. Yes,” he continued fiercely ; “ No word between 
us from henceforth. You have horse- whipped me, sir, 
and I, who never took a blow from man yet without 
returning it, have taken your horse- whipping. Take 

your d d whip,” he said, flinging it to the end of 

the room ; “ and after that never dare to say that all 
accounts are not squared between us.” 

Lillyston made room for him to pass. With a lower- 
ing countenance he turned from them, and they con- 
tinued silent till they had heard his last heavy footfall 
as he went down the echoing stairs. 

Lillyston sat on the sofa, and Julian kept his eyes 
fixed on the floor. There seemed nothing to talk 
about, so Lillyston merely said, “Good-night, Julian. 
1 came to advise you to go to bed early, and so get a 
good night’s rest, that you may be yourself to-morrow. 
You have not been yourself to-day. Good-night.” 

But a worse evil had happened to Julian that day 
than hindrance in his career of ambition and hope. 
He had lost a golden opportunity for an act of Chris- 
tian forgiveness which might have had the noblest in- 
fluence on the life of an erring human soul. He had 
lost a golden opportunity of doing lasting good, and 
that, too, to one who hated him. Alas, it is too sel- 
dom that we have power in life to raise up them that 
fall ! Julian felt bitterly, he felt even with poignancy, 
Brogten’s closing words ; but it was too late now to 
offer the forgiveness which would have been invalu- 
able to his persecutor, and would have had a healing 
effect on his own troubled thoughts so short a time be- 
fore. All this gave deeper vexation to his heart as he 
went moodily to bed. 

And Brogten ? He sat sullenly over his fire till the 
last spark died from its ashes, and his lamp flickered 
out, and he shivered with cold. “ It is of use to con- 


JULIAN HOME. 


117 


quer myself,” he thought ; “ it is of no use to do better 
or be better if this comes of it. Horse-whipped, and 
by him ! ” But, as he had said, he no longer grieved 
over Julian’s injury -.—that was wiped off by the horse- 
whipping, and he had now made himself understand 
that his inward respect for Home was deeper than the 
long superficial quarrel that had existed between 
them. It was against Kennedy that the current of his 
anger now swept this ever-growing temptation for 
revenge. His craving, often yielded to, became ter- 
rible in its virulence, and from this day forward there 
was in Brogten’s character a marked change for the 
worse. He ever watched for his opportunity, certain 
that it would come in time ; and this encouragement 
of one bad passion opened the flood-gates for a hun- 
dred more. And so on this evening he went on sell- 
ing himself more and more completely to the devil, till 
the anger within him burned with a red heat, and as 
he went to bed the last words he muttered to himself 
were, “ That fellow Kennedy shall rue it ; curse him, 
he shall rue it to his dying day,” 




CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH. 

THE CLEKKLAND SCHOLARSHIP. 

— — — “ Si consilium vis 
Permittes ipsis expendere numinibus quid 
Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris 
Carior est illis homo quam sibi.” 

Juv, Sat. x. 346. 

How different our smaller trials look, when they are 
seen from the distance of a quiet and refreshful rest. 
Utterly wearied, Julian slept deeply, and when the ser- 
vant awoke him next morning he determined that, as 
the errors of yesterday were irreparable, he would at 
least save the chances of to-day. 

He rose at once, and read during breakfast the letter 
from home which came to him from one of his family 
nearly every day. This morning it was from Violet, 
and he could see well how anxiously they were awaiting 
the result of his present examination, and yet how sure 
they were that he would succeed. Un willing to trouble 
them by the painful circumstances of the day before, 
he determined not to write home again until the deci- 
sion was made known. 

This morning’s paper was to be the last, and Julian 
applied to it the utmost vigor of his powers. After 
the first few moments, he had utterly banished every 
sorrowful reflection, and when the clock struck twelve, 
he felt that once more he had done himself justice. 
He answered with a smiling assent the examiner’s 
expressed hope that his health was better than it had 
been the day before, and joining Owen as he left the 
senate-house, found, on comparing notes, that he had 
118 


JULIAN HOME. 119 

done the paper at least as well as his dreaded but 
friendly rival. 

His spirits rose, and his hopes revived in full. Shak- 
ing off examination reminiscences, he proposed to De 
Vayne, Kennedy, and Lillyston a bathe in the river, 
and then a long run across the country. They started 
at once, laughing and talking incessantly on every 
subject except the Clerkland, which was tabooed. 
Ten minutes’ run brought them to a green bend of the 
stream, where a bathing-shed had been built, and 
after enjoying the bathe as only the first bathe in a 
season can be enjoyed, they struck off over the fields 
towards some neighboring villages which De Yayne 
had often wanted to visit, because their old churches 
contained some quaint specimens of early architecture. 
On the way they passed through Barton Wood, and 
there found some fine specimens of herb Paris, with 
large bright purple berries resting on its topmost trifo- 
liations, one of which Julian eagerly seized, saying 
that his sister had long wanted one for her collection 
of dried plants. 

“ I suppose you want the one you have gathered, 
De Vayne, for some botanist,” said Lillyston. 

“No — yes — at least I meant it for a lady, too; but 
it’s of no use now,” he said stammering. 

“ For a lady — of no use now” said Kennedy laugh- 
ing ; “ what do you mean ? ” 

“O never mind,” said Julian, as he noticed De 
Vayne’s blush, and divined that he had meant the 
plant for Violet, but without knowing how much he 
was vexed by losing the opportunity of doing some- 
thing for her. 

They had a beautiful walk ; De Vayne made little 
sketches of the windows and gargoyles of the village 
churches, and they all returned in the evening to a 
dinner which Lillyston had ordered in his own rooms, 
and which gave the rest an agreeable surprise when 
they got in. 

“Julian,” whispered De Vayne as they went away, 
“ would you mind my sending that herb Paris to 
Vi I beg pardon, to Miss Home, to your sister.” 


120 


JULIAN HOME. 


“O dear yes, if you like,” said Julian carelessly, 
surprised at the earnestness of his manner about such 
a trifle* 

“It’s only, you know, because Miss Home had heard 
that they were to be found near Camford, and asked 
me to get her one for her herbarium.” 

“O very well, send it by all means. I shouldn’t 
like you to break a promise.” 

“Thank you,” said De Vayne; “and I suppose that 
Miss Home wouldn’t mind my sending it in a letter.” 

“Certainly not,” said Julian, laughing; “I’ve no 
doubt she’ll be highly flattered. Here’s the plant. 
Good-night.” 

“What could he have meant,” thought he, “by 
making such a fuss about the specimen, and by blush- 
ing so when Kennedy chaffed him ? he surely can’t 
have fallen in love with my dear little Vi.” Now he 
thought of it, many indications seemed to show that 
such was really the case, and Julian contemplated the 
thought with singular pleasure. It did him good by 
diverting his attention from all harassing topics, and 
knowing that Yiolet was well worthy of Lord De 
Vayne, and could make him truly happy, while his 
high character and cultivated intellect rendered him 
well suited for her, he hoped in his secret heart that 
some day might see them united. 

But Lord De Vayne, full of delight, took the plant, 
pressed it carefully, cut it to the size of an envelope, 
and then with a thrill of pleasure sat down to write 
his letter to Violet Home. 

“ Dear Violet,” he wrote, after having chosen a good 
sheet of note-paper and a first-rate pen, “ you remember 

that I promised to find you a ” “Dear Violet — 

no, that won’t quite do,” he said, as he read over what 
he had written, “ at least not yet. How pretty it looks ! 
what a charming name it is ! I wonder whether it 
would do to call her Violet; no, I suppose not; at least 
not yet — not yet!” and the young viscount let his 
fancy wander away to Uther Hall, and there by the 
grand old fireplace in the drawing-room he placed in 
imagination a slight graceful figure with soft fair hair, 


JULIAN HOME. 


121 


and a smile that lighted up an angel face, — and by her 
side he sat down, and let his thoughts wander through 
a vista of golden years. 

Waking from his reverie, he found that his letter 
would be too late for the post, so he deferred it till 
Monday, and then wrote — 

“ Deak Miss Home — I enclose you a specimen of the 
herb Paris, which I promised to procure for you, if I 
could find one in Barton Wood. Julian was the actual 
discoverer, but has kindly allowed me to send it in 
fulfilment of my promise; he is quite well, and we 
are all hoping that you may hear in a day or two that 
he has got the Clerkland scholarship. With kindest 
remembrances to Mrs. Home and your brothers, I re- 
main, dear Miss Home, very truly yours, 

“De Vayne.” 

Little did Violet dream that this commonplace note 
had given its author such deep pleasure, and that be- 
fore he despatched it he had kissed it a thousand times 
for her sake, and because it was destined for her hand. 

De Vayne would not have added the allusion to 
the Clerkland, but that rumors were already gaining 
ground in Julian’s favor. The unusual brilliancy of 
his earlier papers had* already attracted considerable 
attention, and from mysterious hints at the high table 
De Vayne began to gather almost with certainty that 
Julian was the successful candidate. Similar reports 
from various quarters were rife among the undergrad- 
uates, and were supposed to be traceable to competent 
authorities. 

Wednesday evening came, and next morning the 
result was to be made known. As certainty ap- 
proached, and suspense was nearly terminated, Julian 
awaited his fate with sickening, almost with trembling 
anxiety. At nine o’clock he knew that the paper on 
which was written the name of the Clerkland scholar 
would be affixed to the senate-house door, but he did 
not venture to go and read it. He knew that, if he 
were successful, a hundred men would be eager to 


122 


JULIAN HOME. 


rush up to his rooms with the joyful intelligence ; if 
unsuccessful, he still trusted that he had one or two 
friends sufficiently sincere to put an end to his painful 
anxiety by telling him the news. 

Nine o’clock struck. O for the sound of some foot- 
step on the stairs ! Many must know the result by 
this time. Julian’s hopes were still high, and he could 
not fail to - hear of the numerous and seemingly au- 
thoritative reports which had ascribed success to him. 
He pressed his hands hard together, as he prayed that 
what was most for his welfare might be granted to 
him, and thought what boundless delight success 
would bring with it. What a joy it would be, above 
all, to write home, and gladden their hearts by the 
news of his triumph. 

Every moment his suspense made him more feverish, 
and now the clock struck a quarter past nine, and he 
feared that in this case no news must be bad news. 
He leaned out of the window, and at this moment Mr. 
Grayson strolled across the bowling-green. Then he 
heard another don, who was following him, call out — 

“ I say, do you know that the Clerkland is out ? ” 

“ Is it?” said Mr. Grayson, with an unusual show 
of interest. 

“ Yes. Who do you think has got it?” 

“ A St. Werner’s man, I hope.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, who is it?” 

What was the answer — Owen or Home? — at that 
distance the names sounded exactly alllie. 

“ Ob, then, I am very sorry for ” Again Julian 

could not, with his utmost effort, catch the name with 
certainty ; and, unable any longer to endure this state 
of doubt, he seized his cap and gown, when the sound 
of a slow footstep stopped him. 

But it was Brogten’s step, and Julian heard him 
pass into his own room. 

A moment of breathless silence, and then another 
step, or rather the steps of two men ; he detected by 
the sound that they were Lilly ston and De Vayne. In 
one moment he would know the Was it the best 


JULIAN HOME. 


123 


or the worst ? He stood with his hand on the handle of 
the door ; but it seemed as if they would never get to 
the top of the stairs. Why on earth were they so 
slow ? 

“ Well,” said Julian, as they came in sight, “is the 
Clerkland out?” He knew it was, but would not ask 
them the result. 

“ Yes,” they both said ; and Lillyston added in a 
sorrowful tone of voice, “ I am sorry for you, Julian, 
but Owen has got it.’ 

Julian, grew very pale, and for one second seemed as 
if he would faint. Lord de Vayne caught him as he 
staggered, and added eagerly, “ But you are most hon- 
orably mentioned, Julian, ‘proxime accessit,’ and an 
allusion to your illness during one paper.” 

“Nothing, nothing,” muttered Julian ; “please leave 
me by myself.” They were unwilling to leave him, 
and both lingered, but he entreated them to go, and 
respecting his desire for solitude they left him alone. 

Julian for the first few moments felt utterly crushed. 
This first failure — solely caused, too, by the malice of 
an enemy — seemed to throw a dark shadow of evil 
augury over the prospects of his university career. 
“ Here l am,” he murmured, “a sizar, an orphan, poor, 
without relations, with others depending on me, with 
my own way to make in the world, and now he has lost 
me the one thing I longed for, the one thing which 
would have made me happy,” and as Julian kept brood- 
ing on this, on the loss of reputation, of help, of hope, his 
eyes grew red and swollen, and his temples throbbed 
with pain. He was far from strong, and the shock 
of news that shattered all his hopes, and dashed rudely 
to the ground his long, long cherished desires, fell 
more heavily upon him because his constitution, nat- 
urally delicate, had suffered much during the last week 
from study and over-anxiety. The necessity of writing 
home haunted him, — to his mother and sister, whose 
pride in him was so great, and who hoped so much for 
the honors which they thought him so sure to win, — 
'to his brothers who had seen his diligence, and who 
would be deeply sorry to know that it had been in 


124 


JULIAN HOME. 


vain ; to them at least he would be forced to announce 
the humiliating intelligence of defeat. lie might leave 
his other friends to learn it from accident sources, but 
oh the bitterness of being obliged to announce it for 
himself to those to whose disappointment he was most 
painfully alive; and oh the intolerable plague of re- 
ceiving letters of commiseration ! 

He could not do anything ; he could not read or 
write, or even think, except of the one blow which had 
thus laid him prostrate. He leaned over his window- 
sill, and stared stupidly at the great stone bears carved 
on the portals of St. Margaret’s ; his eyes wandered 
listlessly over the smooth turf of the Fellows’ bowling- 
green, and the trim parterres full of crocus and an- 
emone and violet which fringed it; he watched the 
boats skim past him on the winding gleams of the 
river, and shoot among the water-lilies by the bridge; 
and then he stared upwards at the sun, trying to think 
of nothing, until his eyes watered, and then the sight 
of a don in the garden below made him shrink back, to 
avoid observation, into his own room. 

Some of the St. Werner’s men would be coming soon 
to condole with him. What a nuisance it would be ! 
He got up and sported the door. This action recalled 
in all their intensity his bitterest and angriest feelings, 
and he flung the door open again, and threw himself 
full length on the sofa, until a sort of painful stupor 
came over him, and he became unconscious of how the 
time went by. 

At length a slight sound awoke him, and he saw De 
Yayne standing by him. De Yayne was so gentle in 
heart and manner, so full of sympathy and kindness, 
that of all others he was the one whom at that mo- 
ment Julian could best endure to see. 

“ I am afraid,” he said, “ that you will think me very 
foolish, De Yayne. But to me everything almost de- 
pended on this scholarship, and you can hardly tell how 
absolutely it has engrossed my hopes.” 

“It is very natural that you should feel it, Julian. 
But I came to ask if you would like me to save you the 
trouble of writing home to-day. I could say more, you 


JULIAN HOME. 


125 


know, than you could,” he added with a pleasant smile, 
“of the splendid manner in which you acquitted your- 
self, of which I have heard a great deal that I will tell 
you some day.” 

“ Thanks, De Vayne. I should be really and truly 
grateful if you would. They will expect to hear by to- 
morrow, and I know that if I write now, I shall be say- 
ing something bitter and hasty.” 

“Very well, I will. Are you inclined for a stroll 
now ? ” 

“ No, thank you,” said Julian, unwilling to encounter 
the many eyes which he knew would look on him with 
curiosity to see how he bore his loss. 

“Good-morning, then; I shall come again soon.” 

“ Do, I shall like to see you ,” said Julian ; and De 
Vayne went away, thinking with some happiness, that 
if he had won Julian’s affection, that would be some- 
thing towards helping him to win Violet’s too. 

Julian had no intention that any strange eye should 
see how much he had felt his disappointment, so when 
Mr. Admer came to see him he gave no sign of vexa- 
ation, and they talked indifferently for a few minutes, 
till Mr. Admer said — 

“ Well, Home, I’m sorry you haven’t got this scholar- 
ship. Not that it makes the least difference you know 
really. No sensible man would have thought one atom 
the better of you for getting it, and even your repu- 
tation stands just as high as before. 

“Ah, I see you take it to heart rather; all very 
natural, but when you’re my age you’ll think less of 
these things. There are higher successes in the world 
than these small university affairs.” 

“But they aren’t small to me,” said Julian. 

“Not to men up here,” said Mr. Admer. 

“ ‘ They think the rustic cackle of their bourg 
The murmur of the world.’ 

Perhaps, after all, if you had got it, it would only have 
helped to make you as fussy, as foolish, and as self- 
important as Jones, and Brown, and Robinson, who, 
because of their little triumphs, think themselves the 


126 


JULIAN HOME. 


most important people in England ; or as the Senior 
Wrangler, who entering the theatre at the same mo* 
ment as the Queen, bowed graciously on all sides in 
acknowledgment of the acclamations. As it is, Home, 
you are a man who ought to do something in the world.” 

Julian could not help smiling at Mr. A diner’s usual 
style, and would have found some relief in arguing 
with him, had not Hazlet entered, whose very appear- 
ance put Mr. Admer to a precipitate flight. There 
could not have been any human being less likely to 
give Julian any effectual consolation at such a moment, 
and he could not help sighing as Mr. Admer left him 
to his persecutor. 

“Fugis improbus ac me sub cultro linguis,” he said 
appealingly, secure in Hazlet’s ignorance of the Latin 
tongue; but Mr. Admer only shook his head signifi- 
cantly and disappeared. 

With his black shining hair brushed down in unusual 
lankiness over his receding forehead, and with an ex- 
pression of sleek resignation unusually sanctimonious, 
Hazlet sat down, and gave a half groan. 

“ I am sorry,” he said, “ dear Julian ” 

“ Home, if you please, Hazlet,” interrupted Julian. 

Hazlet was a little taken aback, but he said — 

“Well, dear Home ” 

“ Home only, if you please,” said Julian still more 
abruptly. 

“ Ah ! I see you are in a rebellious — excuse me, dear 
— I mean Home, — a rebellious spirit. I feared it would 
be so when I saw that godless young clergyman with 
you.” 

Julian relieved his disgust by an expression of im- 
patience. 

“ I have no doubt, dear Ju — , I mean Home. I have 
no doubt,” he continued with a gusto infinitely annoy- 
ing, “ that you needed this rod. I am afraid that you 
are as yet unconverted ; that you have as yet no saving, 
no vital sense of Christianity. Some sin, perhaps, 
needs correction ; some ” 

“ Confound your intolerable impudence and cant,” 
said Julian, starting from his seat, aroused by his hypo- 


JULIAN HOME. 


127 


critical prate into unwonted intolerance; and he sud- 
denly observed, by the cowering attitude which Hazlet 
assumed, that the worthy youth was afraid of receiv- 
ing at his head the water-bottle, on which Julian’s hand 
was resting. He thought it best to avoid the tempta- 
tion, and hoping Hazlet would take the hint, he said, 
“ Forgive my rudeness, Hazlet, but I am very tired 
and annoyed just now; in fact, I am hardly in a con- 
dition to talk with you, as you see, and you are really 
quite incapable of saying anything to help me.” 

But Hazlet had come prepared to say his say, and 
did not attempt to move. 

“Ah,” he said, with a sigh which seemed to express 
satisfaction— (“ some people always sigh when they 
thank God ”) — “ I am afraid you are unprepared for 
the consolations of religion.” 

“ Of such a religion as yours, most certainly,” inter- 
rupted Julian, with haughty vehemence. 

“The natural man, you see ” He stopped as 

he saw Julian’s hand fidgeting towards the water-bottle. 
“ Ah ! well, you will have still to sit at the sizars’ table, 
and dine on the Fellows’ leavings ; perhaps it might 
inscrutably be good for you to bear the yoke ” 

Had the fellow come to insult him? Was he there 
on purpose to gratify his malice at another’s misfort- 
une, under the pretext of pious reflections ? Half-a- 
dozen times Julian had thought so, and thought so 
correctly. Hazlet’s very little and very ignorant mind 
had been fed into self-complacency by the cheering 
belief that he and his friends formed a select party 
whose future welfare was secure, while “the world” 
was very wicked, and destined to everlasting burn- 
ing; and in proportion to his gross conceit was he 
nettled with the evident manner in which Julian, 
though without any rudeness, avoided his company 
even at Ildown, where he reigned with undisputed 
sway among his own admiring circle of yovatxdpta. (Ex- 
cuse the word, gentle reader ; it is St. Paul’s— not 
mine. Hazlet had come there, though in the depth 
of his hypocrisy he hardly knew it himself, to enjoy a 
little triumph over Julian’s pride, and to pour a little 


128 


JULIAN HOME . 


vinegar, in the guise of a good Samaritan, on wounds 
which he knew to be bleeding still. 

In saying the last sentence, in which he cut Julian 
to the very quick, Hazlet had seemed to his victim’s 
excited imagination to be actually smacking his lips 
with undisguised delight. “ Ah, you will have still to 
dine at the sizars’ table on the Fellows’ leavings.” 
Julian knew that the form of the sentence made it 
most maliciously and odiously false ; and that this 
hypocritical son of Belial should address him at such 
a moment in such a way was so revolting to his own 
generous spirit, that he could endure it no longer. 

“ What did you say ? ” he asked sharply. 

“Of course, my dear Ju Home, I mean — 

poverty is no disgrace to you, you know. Some of the 
sizars are pious men, I have no doubt, and I dare say 
the Fellows leave ” 

“I swear this is too much,” said Julian, using the 
only oath that ever in all his lifetime crossed his lips; 

“You canting and mean Pshaw! you are beneath 

my abuse. Sizar indeed ! there, take that and begone.” 
lie had meant to empty the tumbler in his face, but 
his hand shook with passion, and the glass flew out of 
it, and after cutting the top of Hazlet’s head, fell 
broken on the floor. 

With a howl of dismay Ilazlet fled to his own 
rooms, where, having satisfied himself that the cut had 
done little other harm than leaving some red streaks 
upon his damp and lanky hair, he put over it some 
strips of plaster as large as he conveniently could, and 
then with a lugubrious expression went to hall, and 
gratified his malice by buzzing and babbling among 
his fellows all sorts of lies and exaggerations about 
Julian’s conduct and state of mind. When Kennedy 
came in, however, he put an abrupt end to Hazlet’s 
calumnies by handling his own tumbler with so signifi- 
cant a glance that Hazlet assumed a look of terror, 
and amid shouts of laughter, retired with all speed 
out of reach of the danger. 

Lillyston, always a firm and faithful friend, was 
grieved to the soul to hear of Julian’s condition; for 


JULIAN HOME. 


129 


without believing half that Hazlet said, it was at least 
clear that Julian had shown some violence, and, if 
Hazlet was to be trusted, “had sworn at him in a 
manner perfectly awful.” What had come over Julian 
of late ? Since that fit of uncontrollable and lasting 
passion which had overpowered him when he was 
screwed in, he did not seem to have recovered that 
noble moral strength and equilibrium which was 
usually conspicuous in his character. The restless- 
ness whicli had prevented him from doing the paper, 
the half sullen silence through the day, the horse- 
whipping of Brogten, the second outburst of unchecked 
feeling at the loss of the scholarship, and finally, this 
treatment of Hazlet, caused Lillyston a deep regret 
that his friend should have strayed so widely from his 
usual calm and manly course. It was as if one stag- 
gering blow had loosened all the joints of his moral 
armor, and left room for successive wounds. He 
determined to go and see him before chapel, and, if 
possible, get him to come and spend the evening quietly 
with him ; he was only prevented from going at once 
by supposing that Julian would be dining by himself 
to avoid meeting any one in hall, and he did not wish 
to disturb him at his lonely meal. 

Julian’s head was aching with mortification, passion, 
and fatigue ; it seemed as if he had but one thought to 
which he could turn, and that this was a thought of 
weariness and pain. He dwelt much less on his own 
defeat than on the disappointment which he knew it 
would cause to Violet and his young brothers. He 
knew well that Mrs. Home would bear it with equa- 
nimity, because she regarded all the events of life, 
however painful, with the same quiet resignation, and 
trusted ever in the gentle dealing and loving purposes 
of His hand who guides them all. Poor Julian longed 
to be able to regard it in this light too, but he had 
suffered the angry part of his nature to gain the 
victory, and his better reason was in abeyance for a 
time. 

Unable to endure the notion of going to hall, which 
would be a painful reminder that the opportunity to 
9 


130 


JULIAN HOME. 


which he had long looked for emancipation from his 
sizarship had passed by, he determined to take some 
wine, in the hope that it would support him till the 
evening. He could not of course afford to give wine 
parties, but he always kept a few bottles in his rooms 
for medicinal purposes, or to offer to any stranger who 
might come to visit him. Taking out a decanter, he 
sat down in his arm-chair, and drank four or five 
glasses in succession. The wine exhilarated him ; as 
he had scarcely tasted anything all day, it got rapidly 
into his head, and in a few minutes his thoughts 
seemed in a tumult of delirious emotion. Pride and 
passion triumphed over every other feeling ; after all, 
what was the scholarship to him ? Tush ! he looked 
for better things in life than scholarships. He would 
discard the petty successes of pedantry, and would 
seek a loftier greatness. He had been a fool to trouble 
himself about such trifles. And as these arrogant 
mists clouded his fancy, he began to sing aloud in a 
careless and defiant strain. 

It was a saint’s-day evening, and consequently chapel 
was at a quarter past six instead of six, and the under- 
graduates wore surplices in chapel instead of their 
ordinary gowns. On saints’-days there is always a 
choral service at St. Werner’s College, and the excel- 
lence of the choir generally attracted a large congrega- 
tion. To Julian, who was fond of music, these saint’s- 
day services had a peculiar interest ; and now while 
his brain was swimming with the fumes of wine he de- 
termined to go to chapel, and imagined to himself the 
pleasure he should feel in striding haughtily through 
the throng of men up the long aisle to the sizars’ seat, 
to show by his look and manner that his courage was 
undaunted, and that his self-confidence rose superior 
to defeat. Although the chapel-bell had not yet begun 
to ring, he put out his cap and surplice, and sat down 
to drink more wine. 

Just as the clock struck six Lillyston knocked at 
Julian’s door. 

“Aha! old fellow,” said Julian, carelessly, in a tone 
and manner very different from his usual courtesy, 


JULIAN HOME. 131 

u you are just in time to have a glass of wine before 
chapel.” 

“No, thank you,” said Lillyston coldly, sick at heart 
to see a fresh proof of his friend’s unworthy excite- 
ment, but without realizing as yet his true condition. 

“ Tush ! you think I care about that trumpery Clerk- 
land? Not I ! Won’t you have some wine ? no? well, 
I shall, and then I’m going to chapel.” 

His flushed countenance and excited manner, joined 
to the harsh tones of his generally pleasant and musi- 
cal voice, produced on Lillyston’s mind a feeling of 
deep pain and shame, and when with unsteady hand 
Julian endeavored to pour out for himself a fresh 
glass, and in doing so, spilt the wine in great streams 
over the table, Lillyston saw that he was in an utterly 
unfit state to go to chapel, and that the attempt to do 
so would certainly draw upon him exposure and dis- 
grace. 

“Julian,” he said gently; “you are not in a condi- 
tion to go to chapel ; you must not think of it.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said Julian, with a stare in- 
tended to express hauteur. 

“I mean,” he replied slowly, “that the wine has 
got into your head.” 

A defiant laugh was the only answer, and Julian 
began to put on his surplice wrong side out. 

“Julian, I beg of you to stay here as you would 
avoid ruin.” 

“ Pooh ! I am not a child as you seem to think. I 
shall do just as I like, and you shan’t stop me.” 

Pained to the very heart, Lillyston wavered for a 
moment, but a glance at Julian decided him. Five 
years of happy uninterrupted friendship, five years 
during which he had regarded his friend’s stainless 
character with ever-growing pride and affection, deter- 
mined him at all hazards to save him from the effects 
of this temporary possession. Firmly, but quietly, he 
planted his back against the door and said — 

“ Dear Julian, I beseech you not to go.” 

The tone of voice, the mention of his own name, 
recalled Julian for a moment, but the sound of the 


132 


JULIAN I10ME. 


chapel-bell renewed his determination, and he an- 
wered, “ Nonsense. Come, make room.” 

“You shall not go, Julian.” 

“ But I will,” shouted he angrily ; “ how dare you 
prevent me; stand aside.” 

Lillyston did not stir, and, rendered furious by op- 
position, Julian grappled with him. It required all 
Lillyston’s strength to retain his position against this 
wild assault, but he managed to do so without inflict- 
ing any hurt; and when Julian paused, Lillyston 
noticed with a sense of relief that the chapel-bell had 
ceased to ring. 

“ I will go,” said Julian, fiercely renewing the strug- 
gle. But with all his efforts he could not stir Lilly- 
ston from the door, and only succeeded in tearing his 
surplice from the neck downwards. He paused, and, 
baffled of his intention, glared at his opponent. 

“ The clock has now struck,” said Lillyston calmly, 
“and the doors will be shut. You are too late to 
get in.” 

Julian stamped impatiently on the floor, and pre- 
pared to close with Lillyston again, but now Lillyston 
stepped from the door, and as he slowly went out, 
turned round and said — 

“Julian, do you call this being brave or strong? 
Can you let one disappointment unman you so ut- 
terly?” 

“Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be 
with you.” The words flashed into light from the 
folded pages of Julian’s memory, and with them the 
dim image of a dead face, and the dying echo of a 
father’s voice. 




CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. 

ME. CARDEN’. 

“ Pol pudere quam pigere proestat totidem literis.” 

Plaut. Trinum. II. 2. 

Who has not felt, who does not know, that one sin 
yielded to, that one passion uncontrolled, too often 
brings with it a train of other sins, and betrays the 
drawbridge of the citadel to a thousand enemies 
beside ? 

It had been so with Julian Home, and in proportion 
to the true strength and beauty of his character was 
the poignancy of his bitterness when he awoke the 
next morning, and calmly reviewed the few last ex- 
cited, prayerless, and unworthy days. Surely after 
so many proofs of weakness, surely after emotions and 
acts so violently inadequate to the circumstances which 
had caused them, his best friends must despise him as 
utterly as he despised himself. There often comes to 
men in life a crisis at which they have the calmness to 
see and the courage to admit both to themselves and 
others that they have been unutterable fools . When 
such a crisis arrives, and when a man has the grace and 
the manliness to use it aright, it may often be an in- 
estimable advantage as a source at once of future 
humility and future wisdom. Such a crisis had now 
arrived to Julian Home. 

He arose that morning strong out of Aveakness. He 
determined that he would be checked no longer by 
unavailing regrets, and that his repentance should be 
open and manly, as his folly and weakness had been 

133 


134 


JULIAN HOME. 


conspicuous. Fortified by the humiliating experience 
of his own want of strength, he sought for help in 
resolute determination and earnest prayer. After 
breakfast, his first step was to call on Owen, and con- 
gratulate him with hearty and unaffected simplicity on 
his success — a success which Owen generously acknowl- 
edged to be due solely to Julian’s misfortune. It was 
much more difficult to call on Ilazlet, but this, too, 
Julian felt to be his duty; and distasteful as it was, 
he would not shrink from performing it. Ilazlet re- 
ceived him with a ludicrous air of offended dignity, 
and was barely overcome into a tone of magnanimous 
forgiveness by Julian’s frank apology. On the whole, 
Julian decided that it would be best not to call on 
Brogten, lest, by so doing, he should seem to be re- 
minding him of the consequences of his enmity under 
the appearance of expressing a regret. It only re- 
mained therefore to see Lillyston, and to this visit 
Julian looked with unmitigated joy. 

“ Forgive me, Hugh,” he said, as he entered the 
room ; “ from this time forward I shall owe you a new 
debt of gratitude ; you have saved me from I know 
not what disgrace.” 

Lillyston was delighted to see him look like his old 
self once more. The cloud which had been hanging 
on his brow was dissipated, and the sullen expression 
had wholly passed. 

“Don’t talk of debt, Julian,” he said; “between 
friends, you know, there are no obligations — they are 
merged in the friendship itself.” 

“ I am amazed at my own intolerable folly, Hugh. 
I hope this is the last time that I shall yield to such 
storms of passion. I have much to be ashamed of.” 

“Well, Julian,” said Lillyston, changing the sub- 
ject; “you mustn’t think any more of this Clerkland, 
for potentially you got it, as everybody acknowledges ; 
duvdfjst you were successful, if not 'dpytpN 

“ I don’t mean to let it discourage me,” said Julian, 
“though the potential is mightily different from the 
actual.” Nor did he suffer it to discourage him or 
weaken his endeavors. His life soon began to flow 


JULIAN HOME. 


135 


once more in its usual, even, and quiet course. It did 
not take him long to discover that it was possible to 
live happily without the Clerkland, and he wondered 
in himself at the intensity of the desire to obtain it 
which he had suffered to overpower him. He felt no 
touch of envy towards Owen, whose friendship he 
began to value more and more, and who voluntarily 
told him, from information that he had derived from 
the examiners themselves, that the decision had long 
hung in a doubtful scale. In fact, the scholarship 
would have been divided between both of them but for 
one of the examiners who hardly appreciated Julian’s 
merits. It was so well understood that he must have 
been the successful candidate but for the one fatal 
paper on Friday morning, that he rather gained than 
lost in reputation from the result of the competition. 

It was a few days after these events that Julian re- 
ceived from Mr. Carden a pressing invitation to spend 
a Sunday with him at Harton. Glad of a change, he 
easily obtained an exeat, and went down on the Satur- 
day morning. Even the half-year since he had left 
had made a perceptible change in the old place. There 
were many new faces, and many old ones had disap- 
peared; so that, already, he began to feel himself half 
a stranger among the familiar scenes. But alike from 
boys and masters he received a kindly greeting, and 
Mr. Carden entertained him with a pleasant and genial 
hospitality. The only thing which pained him was 
the obvious change for the worse in Mr. Carden’s 
health. He wore a sadder expression than of old, and 
though he made no remark about his health, yet every 
now and then his face seemed to be suddenly con- 
tracted by a throb of pain. 

On the Monday morning, when it was necessary for 
Julian to return to Camford, Mr. Carden called him 
into his study after breakfast, and asked him to choose 
any book he liked, as a farewell present, from the 
shelves. 

“But why farewell present, Mr. Carden?” asked 
Julian laughing. “ Aren’t you ever going to ask me 
to Harton again ? ” 


136 


JULIAN HOME. 


“No,” said Mr. Carden with a sad smile, “ never 
again.” 

“ I resign my mastership at the end of this term,” 
he continued, in answer to Julian’s inquiring look; 
“ my health is so uncertain that I feel unequal any 
longer to those most arduous, most responsible duties. 
Perhaps, too,” he added, “ I may be a little disappointed 
in the result of my labors ; but, at any rate, though 
as yet few are aware of it, this is my last month at 
Harton — so choose one of my books, Julian, as a fare- 
well present.” 

Julian expressed his real sorrow at Mr. Carden’s 
failing health. “ If you go away,” he said, “ it will 
seem as if the chief tie which bound me to dear old 
Harton was suddenly snapped.” He chose as his me- 
mento a small volume of sermons which Mr. Carden 
had published in former days, and asked him to write 
his name on the title-page. 

“Yes,” said the master, “you shall have that book 
if you like ; but I mean you to have also a more sub- 
stantial memorial of my library. Here, Julian, this 
book I always destined to be yours some day ; you may 
as well have it now.” 

He took down from the shelves a richly-bound copy 
of Coleridge’s works, in ten volumes, which Julian 
knew to be the one book of his library which he most 
deeply prized. His marginal comments enriched al- 
most every page, and Julian was ashamed to take 
what he knew that the owner so highly valued. 

“ But I thought you told me once that you were 
thinking of publishing a biography of Coleridge and an 
edition of his writings,” said Julian. “ Surely, sir, you 
will want these MS. notes, won’t you ? ” 

“Ah, Julian ! that is one of the many plans which 
have floated through my mind unfulfilled. My life, I 
fear, will have been an incomplete one. Thank God 
that there is no such thing as a necessary man — il rty 
a point cThommes necessaires ; others will be found to 
do a thousandfold better the work which I had pur- 
posed to do.” And then he murmured half to him- 
self— 


JULIAN HOME. 


137 


“ Till, in due time, one by one, 

Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well 
undone, 

Death came suddenly, and took them where men never see 
the sun.” 

His eyes filled with tears. “No,” he said, “take 
the book, Julian. If it does you all the good it has 
done me, it will have been more useful than I could 
ever have made it. And when you hang on the elo- 
quent and earnest words of the great poet-philosopher, 
mingle his teachings with some few memories of me ; 
it will be like a drop of myrrh, perhaps, in the cup, 

but 1 should like, he added, with faltering voice, 

“ to leave at least one to think of me with affection.” 

He turned away as his old pupil grasped his hand ; 
and Julian, as he went back in the train to Camford, 
could not help a feeling of real pity that one so gener- 
ous and upright in heart and life should be destined 
to so lonely and sorrowful a lot. 

As he had said, he resigned his Harton mastership 
at the end of the term, and sailed to Madeira for his 
health. He begged Julian to continue his correspond- 
ence with him, and to tell him all about his old Harton 
and Camford friends. 

During Easter week, while Julian was atlldown, he 
received from him a letter to the following effect : — 

“ Dear Julian — I was not mistaken in hinting, 
while you were at Harton, that we should never meet 
again. I am on my death- bed ; and in all probability 
the rapid decline which is now wasting my powers, and 
which, while I write, shakes me with painful fits of 
coughing, will have terminated my life before this 
letter reaches your hands. 

“I leave life, I hope, with simple resignation; and 
although I have left undone much which I hoped to 
have accomplished, yet I die trusting in God. My 
friends in this world have been few, and my fortunes 
have not been bright, yet happiness has largely prepon- 
derated even in my destiny, and I look on the death 
which is approaching as the commencement, not as the 
end, of true existence. 


188 JULIAN NOME. 

“ But I did not write to you, dear Julian, to tell 
you of the frame of mind in which death finds me. I 
wrote to bid you farewell, and to tell you of something 
which concerns you — I mean my intention, recently 
adopted, of leaving you my small private fortune, and 
the added earnings which my labors have procured. 
Together, they amount only to ten thousand pounds, 
but I hope that they may be of real service to you. 
Had you still been the heir to your aunt’s property, 
perhaps even if you had got the Clerkland, I should 
have disposed of this money in some other way ; but 
as these events have been ordered otherwise, and as I 
have no relations of my own who need the legacy, nor 
any friend in whose welfare I take deeper interest 
than in yours, it gives me a gleam of real satisfaction 
to be able to place at your disposal this little sum. 

“Good-bye, my dear Julian. When these words - 
meet your eye I expect to be in that state where even 
your prayers can benefit me no more. But I know 
your affectionate and grateful heart, and I know that 
you will sometimes recur with a thought of kindness 
to the memory of your affectionate friend, 

“ Henry Carden.” 

The next mail brought the news of Mr. Carden’s 
death. It caused many a sorrowing heart both at 
Ilarton and at Camford. Mr. Carden was a man whose 
impetuous and enthusiastic disposition had caused him 
to commit many serious errors in life, and these had 
been a barrier to the success which must otherwise 
have rewarded his energy and talent. But even among 
those who were envious of his ability, and offended by 
his eccentricities, they were few who did not do justice 
to the rectitude of his motives, and none who did not 
admit the warmth of his affections. There were more 
to mourn over his untimely death than there had been 
to forgive the mistakes he made, and by wise and 
friendly counsel to raise him to that height which he 
might easily have obtained. And among the crowd 
who had known him, and the many who honored him, 
there were some who loved him with no ordinary love, 


JULIAN HOME. 


139 


and who were not too proud to admit the obligation of 
a permanent gratitude. It was one of the great happi- 
nesses of Mr. Carden’s life that of this number was 
Julian Home. 

With a clear <£300 a year of his own, it was of course 
unnecessary for Julian to return to St. Werner’s as a 
sizar, and he at once wrote to his tutor to beg that his 
name might be removed from the list. There was one 
respect in which he found this a very material addi- 
tion to his comfort and happiness. As the sizars dined 
an hour later than the other men, and at a separate 
table, he had been by this means cut off from the society 
of many of his friends in hall, where men have more 
opportunities of meeting and becoming intimate than 
anywhere else. It was no slight addition to his hap- 
piness to sit perpetually with the group of friends 
he valued most. 

“I’ve got a magnificent plan for the Long, Julian,” 
said Kennedy to him one day, as they left the hall. 
“ My father is going to Switzerland for three months, 
with my sister Eva and me. Eva goes under the wing 
of an aunt of mine, Mrs. Dudley, whom I think you 
met at Ildown once. Won’t you come with us?” 

The proposal was very tempting, the more so as 
Julian had never been abroad. lie mentioned it in his 
his next letter home, and asked if it would be possible 
for any of them to accompany him, without which he 
gave up all intention of making the tour. In reply, Mrs. 
Home proposed that Violet should go (if Mrs. Dudley 
would kindly chaperone her), because the trip would be 
of great advantage to her in many ways; and that 
Cyril should go, as a reward for his industry and suc- 
cess at school. “As for Frankie and me,” she continued, 
“ we will stay at home to take care of Ildown in your 
absence. Frank is too young to enjoy travelling, and 
I have but little desire for it; we two will stay behind, 
and I daresay we shall be very happy, especially if 
you write us long accounts of all your proceedings.” 

So this most delightful plan was definitely adopted, 
and all concerned were full of the happiest anticipa- 
tions. Kennedy and Julian looked forward to it with 


140 


JULIAN HOME. 


the utmost eagerness ; Violet, who had already grown 
fond of Mrs. Dudley and Eva, was charmed at the 
prospect, and Cyril, with all a boy’s eagerness for 
novelty, was well nigh wild with joy. 

But as yet six weeks were to elapse before the Long 
commenced. 




CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. 

Kennedy’s dishonor. 

“ I fancied Cuthbert’s reddening face 
Beneath its garniture of curly gold, 

Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold 
An arm in mine, to fix me to the place, 

That way he used. . . Alas ! one hour’s disgrace ! ” 

Robert Browning. Childe Roland. 

I am very doubtful, after all, Julian, whether I shall 
be one of the Switzerland party,” said Kennedy, with 
a sigh, as he and Julian were walking round the St. 
Werner’s gardens one bright evening of the May term. 
The limes and chestnuts were unfolding their tender 
sprays of springtide emerald, the willows shivered as 
their green buds made ripples in the water, and the 
soft light of sunset streamed over towers and colleges, 
giving a rich glow to the broad windows of the library, 
and bathing in its rosy tinge the white plumage of the 
swans upon the river. The friends were returning 
from a walk during which they had thoroughly enjoyed 
the blue and golden weather. Up to this time Kennedy 
had seemed to be in the highest spirits, and Julian was 
astonished at the melancholy tone in which the words 
were spoken. 

“ Doubtful ? Why ? ” said Julian, quickly. 

“Because my father has made it conditional on my 
getting a first class in the May examination.” 

“But, my dear fellow, there is not the ghost of a 
doubt of your doing that.” 

“ I don’t feel so sure.” 

« Why, there are often thirty in the first class, in 

141 



142 


JULIAN HOME. 


the freshman’s year ; and just as if you wouldn’t be 
among them ! ” 

“ All very well ; I know that anybody can doit who 
works, but 1 am ashamed to say that I haven’t read one 
of the books yet.” 

“ Haven’t you, really? Well then, for goodness’ 
sake, lose no more time.” 

“But there’s only a fortnight to the examination.” 

“ My dear Kennedy, what have you been doing to be 
so idle.” 

“ Somehow or other the time manages to slip away. 
Heigh ho ! ” said Kennedy, “ my first year at college 
nearly over, and nothing done — nothing done! How 
quickly the time has gone.” 

“Yes,” said Julian ; “ for it has wings on its shoul- 
ders, and we are too slow to catch winged things, as 
old Theocritus says.” 

Seized with the strong determination not only to 
pass the examination, but even to excel in it, Kennedy 
devoted the next fortnight to unremitted study for the 
first time since he had been an undergraduate. But 
the more he read the more painfully he became aware 
of his own deficiencies, and the more bitterly he de- 
plored the waste of time. He seemed to be toiling in 
vain after the opportunities he had lost. He knew 
that the examination, though limited in subjects, was 
searching in character, and he found it impossible to 
acquire, by a sudden impulse what he should have 
learned by continuous diligence. As the time drew 
nearer, he grew more and more nervous. He had set 
his heart on the Swiss tour, and it now seemed to him 
painfully probable that he would fail in fulfilling the 
condition which his father had exacted, and without 
which he well knew that Mr. Kennedy would insist 
on his spending the vacation either at Camford or at 
home. 

Of the three main subjects for examination he had 
succeeded by desperate effort, aided by natural ability, 
in very quickly mastering two sufficiently well to secure 
a creditable result; but the third subject, the Aga- 
memnon of ^Eschylus, remained nearly untouched, and 


JULIAN HOME. 


143 


Kennedy was too good and accurate a scholar not to be 
aware that the most careful and elaborate study was 
indispensable to an even tolerable understanding of 
that masterpiece of Grecian tragedy. Besides this, he 
had a hatred of slovenly and superficial work, and he 
therefore determined to leave iEschylus untouched, 
while, at the same time, he was quite conscious that if 
he did so, all chance of distinction, and even all chance 
of a first class were out of the question. With some 
shame he reflected over this proof, that, for all purposes 
of study, a third of his academical life had been utterly 
and wholly lost. 

As he had decided on giving up the HCschylus, it 
became more imperative to make sure of the Tacitus 
and Demosthenes, and he therefore went to Mr. Gray- 
son’s rooms to get a library order which should entitle 
him to take from the St. Werner’s library any books 
that would be most likely to give him effectual help. 

At the moment of his arrival Mr. Grayson was 
engaged, and he was shown into another room until 
he should be ready. This room was the tutor’s library, 
and like many of the rooms in Camford, it opened into 
an inner and smaller study, the door of which was 
partly open. 

Kennedy sat down, and after a few minutes, as there 
seemed to be no signs that he would be summoned 
immediately, he began to grow very restless. He 
tried some of the books on the table, but they were all 
unspeakably dull; he looked at the pictures on the 
wall, but they were most of them the likenesses of 
Camford celebrities, which he already knew by heart; 
he looked out of the window, but the court was empty, 
and there was nothing to see. Reflecting that the only 
thing which can really induce ennui in a sensible man 
is to be kept waiting, when he is very busy, for an in- 
definite period, which may terminate at any moment, 
and may last for almost any length of time, Kennedy, 
vexed at the interruption of his work, chose the most 
comfortable arm-chair in the room, and settled himself 
in it with a yawn. 

At this moment, as ill fate would have it, his eye 


144 


JULIAN HOME. 


caught sight of a book lying on Mr. Grayson’s reading- 
desk. Lazily rising to see what it was, he found it 
to be an iEschylus, and turned over the leaves with a 
feeling of listless indifference. Between two of the 
leaves lay a written paper, and suddenly after reading 
two or three lines, he observed it to be a manuscript 
copy of the much-dreaded Agamemnon paper for the 
May examination. 

Temptation had surprised him with sudden and 
unexpected violence. He little knew that on this idle 
weary moment rested the destiny of many years. 

As when in a hostile country one has laid aside his 
armor, and from unregarded ambush the enemy leaps 
on him, and though he be strong and noble, stabs him 
with a festering wound, so this temptation to a base 
act sprang on poor Kennedy when he was unarmed and 
unprepared. In the gayeties of life, and the bright- 
nesses of hope, and the securities of unbroken enjoy- 
ment, he had long been trusting in himself only, in his 
own high principle, his own generous impulses, his 
own unstained honor. But these were never sufficient 
for any human being yet, and they snapped in an in- 
stant under this unhappy boy. 

The only honorable thing to do, the thing which at 
another moment Kennedy might have done, and which 
any man would have done whose right instincts and 
high character had the reliable support of higher prin- 
ciples than mere personal self-confidence and pride, 
would have been to shut the book instantly, inform 
Mr. Grayson that he had accidentally read one of the 
questions, and beg him to change it before the exam- 
ination. This Kennedy knew well ; it flashed before 
him in an instant as the only proper course ; but at 
the same instant he passionately obliterated the sug- 
gestion from his mind, fiercely stifled the impulse to 
do right, choked the rebukes of honor and principle, 
and blindly willed to save his reputation as a scholar, 
and his chance of enjoyment for the vacation, by read- 
ing through the entire number of the questions. The 
mental struggle did not last an instant, for the emo- 
tions of the spirit belong only to eternity, and the guilt 


JULIAN HOME. 


145 


of human actions is not commensurate with the length 
of time they occupy. But in the intense wish to see 
what the examination would be like, and to secure his 
first class, Kennedy repressed altogether by one blow 
the moral element of his being, and concentrated his 
whole intellect on the paper before him. To read it 
through was the work of a minute; when it was read 
through, it was too late to wish the act undone, and 
without suffering himself to dwell, or even to recur in 
thought to the nature of his proceedings, Kennedy de- 
liberately read through the whole paper a second time. 

But this imperious effort of the will was not exer- 
cised without visible effects. Absorbed as he was in 
seizing every prominent subject in the questions, his 
forehead contracted, his hand shook, his knees trem- 
bled, and his heart palpitated with violence. He ob- 
served nothing; he did not notice the shadow that 
chequered the sunlight streaming from the door of the 
inner room ; he did not hear the light step which 
passed over the carpet ; he did not feel the breath of a 
man who stood behind him, looked over his shoulder, 
watched his eager determination to secure the unfair 
advantage, smiled at his agitation, and then slipped 
back again into the inner room, unnoticed as before. 

It was done. Not a question but was printed indel- 
ibly on Kennedy’s memory. Quickly, fearfully, he 
shut the book, and glided back to the arm-chair, in the 
vain attempt to look and feel at ease. 

At ease! no, now the tumult broke. Now Kennedy 
hated himself ; called himself mean, vile, contemptible, 
a cheat. Now his insulted honor began to vindicate 
its rights, and his trampled sense of truth to spring up 
with a menacing bound, and his conscience to speak 
out calmly and clearly the language of self-condemna- 
tion and disgust. Good heavens! how could he have 
sunk so low; fancy if Julian had seen him, or could 
know his meanness. Fancy if anybody had seen him. 
Hazlet, or Fitzurse, or Brogten himself, could hardly 
have been guilty of a more dishonorable act. 

You miserable souls, that do not know what honor 
is, or what torments rend a truly noble heart, if ever itj 

IQ 


146 


JULIAN HOME . 


be led to commit an act which to your seared consciences 
and muddy intelligence appears a trivial sin, or even no 
sin at all ; you, the mean men to whom an offence like 
this is so common, that, unless it were discovered, it 
would not trouble your recollections with a feather’s 
weight of remorse, — for you, I scorn to write, and 1 
scorn from my inmost being the sneer with which you 
will regard the agony that Kennedy suffered from his 
fall. But to the high and the generous, who have erred 
and have bewailed their error in secret, — to them I 
appeal to imagine the anguish of self-reproach, the bit- 
terness of humiliation, which stung him in those few 
moments after his first dishonor. It is the lofty tower 
that falls with the heaviest crash ; it is the stately soul 
that suffers the deepest abasement; it is the white 
scutcheon on which the dark stain seems to wear its 
darkest hue. 

He had not sat there for many minutes — though to 
him they seemed like hours — when a step on the stairs 
told him that his tutor’s visitor had departed, and the 
gyp blandly entering, observed — 

“ Now, sir, Mr. Grayson can see you.” 

“ Oh, very well,” said Kennedy, rising and assuming, 
with a painful effort, his most indifferent look and tone. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Kennedy, my turn first; I have 
been waiting longest,” said a harsh voice behind him, 
that sounded mockingly to his excited ear. lie turned 
sharply round, and with a low oow and a curl on the 
protruding lip, and a little guttural laugh, Brogten 
came from the inner room, and passed before him into 
Mr. Grayson’s presence. 

If a thunderbolt had suddenly fallen before Ken- 
nedy’s feet and cloven its sulphureous passage into the 
abyss, he could hardly have been more startled or more 
alarmed. Without a word he sat down half-stupified. 
Was any one else in the inner room ? For very shame 
he dared not look. Had Brogten seen him? If so, 
would he at once tell Mr. Grayson ? What would be 
done in that case? Hare he deny the fact? Passion- 
ately he spurned the hateful suggestion. Would Brog- 
ten tell all the St. W erner’s men ? Brogten of all others, 


JULIAN HOME. 


147 


whom he had publicly insulted and branded with dis- 
honor ! Ah me, there is no anguish so keen, so deadly , 
as the anguish of awakened shame ! 

With unspeakable anxiety Kennedy awaited Brog- 
ten’s departure. Why should he be so long? Surely 
he must be telling Mr. Grayson. 

At last the heavy step was heard, the door opened, 
and the gyp once more announced that Mr. Grayson 
was disengaged. 

Pale and almost breathless, Kennedy went into the 
room. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Kennedy.” 

“Good-morning, sir.” 

lie quite expected that Mr. Grayson was about at 
once to address him on the subject of the paper, and, 
expecting this, totally forgot the purpose for which he 
had come. The tutor’s cold eye was upon him, and 
after a pause he said — 

“ Well, Mr. Kennedy ?” 

“ Well, sir?” he replied, with a start. 

“Do you want anything?” 

“Oh, I came for Really, sir, I must beg your 

pardon, but I have forgotten what it was.” “ To look 
at an examination paper,” were the words which, in 
his embarrassment, sprang to his lips, but he checked 
them just in time. 

“ Really, Mr. Kennedy, you appear to be strangely 
absent this morning,” said Mr. Grayson, in a tone the 
reverse of encouraging. 

“Oh, I remember now,” he replied, desperately; 
“it was a library order I wanted.” 

Mr. Grayson wrote him the order. Kennedy took 
it, and without even shaking the cold hand which the 
tutor proffered, hurried out of the room, relieved at 
least by the conviction that Brogten, if he had seen 
him look at the paper, had not, as yet at any rate, 
revealed it to the examiner. 

“After all,” he reflected, “he was hardly likely to 
do that. But had he told the men ? ” 

Kennedy did not go to the library; he could not 
bear to meet anybody, and hastened to bury himself in 


148 


JULIAN ROME. 


his own rooms. His walk, usually so erect and gay as 
he went across the court — the tune he used to hum so 
merrily in the sunshine — and the bright open glance 
of recognition with which he passed his acquaintances 
and friends, were gone to-day. He shuffled silently 
along the cloisters with downcast eyes. 

Hall -time would be the time to know whether 
Brogten had seen him and betrayed him. And if he 
had seen him, surely there could be no doubt he would 
tell of him. What a sweet revenge it would be for 
that malicious heart! how completely it would turn 
the tables on Kennedy for the day when he had sar- 
castically alluded to Brogten’s bets ! how amply it 
would fulfil the promise of which that parting scowl 
of hatred had been full. 

He went to hall rather late on purpose ; and, instead 
of sitting in his usual place near Julian, he chose a 
vacant place at another table. Half a minute sufficed 
to show him that there was no difference in his recep- 
tion ; the same frequent nods and smiles from all sides 
still gave him the frank greeting of which, as a popu- 
lar man, he was always sure. He looked round for 
Brogten, but could make nothing of his face; it 
simply wore a somewhat slight smile when their eyes 
met, and Kennedy’s fell. Kennedy began to convince 
himself that Brogten could not have seen what he had 
done in Mr. Grayson’s room. 

The thought rolled away a great load — a heavy, in- 
tolerable load from his heart. It was not that with 
him, as with so many thousands, the fear of discovery 
constituted the sense of sin, but young as he was, and 
high as his character had stood hitherto in man’s, 
estimation, he prayed for any chastisement rather 
than that of detection, any stroke in preference to 
open shame. This was the one thing which he felt he 
could not bear. 

Even now, as conscience strongly suggested, he 
might make, by private confession to his tutor, or at 
any rate by not using the knowledge he had thus ac- 
quired, the onty reparation which was still in his 
pow r er. But it was a hard thing for conscience to ask 


JULIAN HOME. 


149 


— too hard for poor Kennedy’s weakness. Much of 
the paper, as he saw at once, he could very easily 
have answered from his previous general knowledge 
and scholarship ; so easily, that he now felt convinced 
that he might liave done quite enough of it to secure 
his first class. His sin then had been useless, quite use- 
less, worse than useless to him. Was he obliged also 
to make it positively injurious ? was he to put himself 
in a worse position than if he had never committed it ? 
After all the punishment which the sin had brought 
with it, was he also to lose, in consequence of it, the 
very advantage, the very enjoyment, for the sake of 
which he had harbored the temptation ? It was too 
much — too much to expect. 

The night before the JEschylus examination he be- 
gan to read up the general information on the sub- 
ject, and he intended to do it quite as if he were una- 
ware of what the actual questions were to be. But it 
was the merest self-deception. Each question was 
branded in fiery letters on his recollection, and he 
found that, as he read, he was skipping involuntarily 
every topic which he knew had not been touched on in 
Mr. Grayson’s paper. 

Oh the sense of hypocrisy with which he eagerly 
seized the paper next morning, and read it over as 
though unaware of its contents ! 

Julian could not help observing that, during the last 
few days, Kennedy’s spirits had suffered a change. 
His old mirth came only in fitful bursts, and he was 
often moody and silent; but Julian attributed it to 
anxiety for the result of the examination, and doubt 
whether he should be allowed by his father to make 
one of the long-anticipated party in the foreign tour. 

Kennedy dared not admit any one into his confidence, 
but the last evening, before they went down, he turned 
the conversation, as he sat at tea in Owen’s room, to 
the topic of character, and the faults of great men, and 
the aberrations of the good. 

“Tell me, Owen,” he said, “as you’re a philosopher 
— tell me what difference the faults of good men make 
in our estimate of them?” 


150 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ In our real estimate,'” said Owen, “ I fancy we 
often adopt, half unconsciously, the maxim, that ‘ the 
king can do no wrong’ — that the true hero is all 
heroic.” 

“Yes,” said Kennedy; “but when some one calls 
your attention to the fact of their failings, and makes 
you look at them — what then ? ” 

“ Why, in nine cases out of ten, the faults are grossly 
exaggerated and misrepresented, and I should try to 
prove that such is the fact ; and for the rest, — why 
no man is perfect.” 

“ You shirk the question, though,” said Lillyston ; 
“for you have to make very tremendous allowance 
indeed for some of the very best of men.” 

“ As for instance ? ” 

“ As for instance, king David.” 

“O don’t take Scripture instances,” said Suton, an 
excellent fellow whom they all liked, though he took 
very different views of things from their own. 

“Why not, in heaven’s name?” said Kennedy; “if 
they suit, they are good because so thoroughly fa- 
miliar. 

“ Yes, but somehow one judges them differently.” 

“ I dare say you do, — in fact I know you do ; but 
you’ve no business to. I maintain that, even accord- 
ing to Moses, king David deserved a felon’s death. 
Murder and adultery were crimes every bit as heinous 
then as they are now. Yet David, this most human 
of heroes, was the man after God’s own heart. Solve 
me the problem.” 

“ Practically,” said Lillyston ; “ I believe one fol- 
lows a genuine instinct in determining not to look at 
the spots, however wide or dark they are, upon the 
sun.” 

“ And in accepting theoretically old Strabo’s grand 
dictum, 3u% o\ov re ayaOov yzvlaOai KocrjTTjv pi ) Tzpozzpov 
yevrjOlvTO. avdpa ayaOov. Ell ? ” 

“ As Coleridge was so fond of doing,” said Julian. 

“ Ay, he needed the theory,” said Suton. 

“Hush! ” said Julian, “I can’t stand any such Phil- 
adelphus hints about Coleridge. By the by, Owen, 


JULIAN HOME. 


151 


you might have quoted a still more apt illustration 
from Seneca, who criticises Livy for saying, ‘ Yir 
ingenii magni magis quam boni’ with the remark, 
‘Non potest illud separari; aut et bonum erit aut 
nee magnum.’ ” 

Mr. Admer, who was one of the circle, chuckled in- 
wardly at the discussion. “I was once,” he said, “at 
a party where a lady sang one of Byron’s Hebrew 
melodies. At the close of it a young clergyman 
sighed deeply, and with an air of intense self-satisfac- 
tion, observed, ‘Ah! I was wondering where poor 
Byron is now ! ’ What should you have all said to 
that ? ” 

“Detesting Byron’s personal character, I should 
have said that the very wonder was a piece of idle 
and meddling presumption,” said Owen. 

“And I should have answered that the Judge will do 
right,” said Suton reverently. 

“ Or if he wanted a text, ‘ Who art thou that judgest 
another?’” said Lillyston contemptuously. 

“ And I,” said Julian, “ should have said, — 

* Let feeble hands iniquitously just. 

Rake up the relics of the sinful dust, 

Let Ignorance mock the pang it cannot heal, 

And Malice brand what Mercy would conceal ; — 

It matters not l ’ ” 

“And I,” said Kennedy, “should have been vehe- 
mently inclined to tweak the man’s nose.” 

“ But what did you say, Mr. Admer ? ” asked Lilly- 
ston. 

“ I answered a fool according to his folly. I threw 
up my eyes and said, ‘Ah where, indeed ! what a good 
thing it is that you and I, sir, are not as that publican.’ ” 

“ I should think he skewered you with a glance, 
didn’t he ? ” said Kennedy. 

“No, he was going to bore me with an argument, 
which I declined.” 

“ But you’ve all cut the question : tell me now, 
supposing you had known king David, should you have 
thought worse of him, should you have been cool to 


152 


JULIAN HOME. 


him — in a word, should you have cut him after his 
fall?” 

“I think not — I mean, I shouldn’t have cut him,” 
said Owen. 

“ And yet you would have treated so any ordinary 
friend.” 

“Not necessarily. But remember that the two best 
things happened to David which could possibly happen 
to a man who has committed a crime.” 

“Namely ? ” 

“ Speedy detection,” said Lillyston. 

“And prompt punishment,” added Julian ; “but for 
these there’s no knowing what would have become of 
him.” 

Unsatisfactory as the discussion had been, yet these 
words ran hauntingly in Kennedy’s ears ; he could not 
forget them. During all those first days of happy 
travel they were with him ; with him as they strolled 
down the gay and lighted boulevards of Paris ; with 
him beside the quaint fountains of Berne and the green 
rushing of the Rhine at Basle; with him amid the 
scent of pine-cones and under the dark green umbrage 
of forest boughs ; with him when he caught his first 
glimpse of the everlasting mountains and plunged into 
the clear brightness of the sapphire lake — the thought 
of speedy detection and prompt punishment. It was 
no small pleasure to partake in Violet’s happiness, and 
mark the ever fresh delight that lent such a bright 
look to Cyril’s face ; but before Kennedy’s mind, even 
In the midst of enjoyment, the memory of a dishonor- 
able act started like a spectre, and threw a sudden 
shadow on his brow. lie felt its presence when he saw 
the sunrise from the Rhigi; it stood by him amid the 
wreathing mists of Pilatus ; it even checked his en- 
thusiasm as they gazed together on the unequal 
glories spread beneath the green summit of Monte- 
rone, and as their graceful boat made ripples on the 
moonlight waves of Orta and Lugano. In a word, the 
conviction of weakness was the only alloying influence 
*o the pleasure of his tour, the one absinthe-drop that 
lent bitterness to the honeyed wine. It was not only 


JULIAN HOME . 


153 


the consciousness of the wrong act and its possible re- 
sults, but horror at the instability of moral principle 
which it showed, and a deep fear lest the same weak- 
ness should prove a snare and a ruin to him in the 
course of future life. 




CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH. 

A DAY OF WONDER. 

“Flowers are lovely, Love is flowerlike, 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 

O the joys that came down showerlike 
With virtue, truth, and liberty, 

When I was young.” 

Coleridge. 

“ To-morrow, then, we are all to ascend the Schilt- 
horn,” said Mr. Kennedy, as he bade good-night to the 
merry party assembled in the salle-a-manger of the 
chalet inn at Miirrem. 

“ Or as high as we ladies can get,” said Mrs. Dudley. 

“ O we’ll get you up, aunt,” said Kennedy ; “ if 
Julian and my father and I can’t get you and Miss 
Home and Eva up, we’re not worth much.” 

“To say nothing of me!” said Cyril, putting his 
arms akimbo, with a look of immense importance. 

“ Breakfast, then, at five to-morrow morning, young 
people,” said Mr. Kennedy, retiring; and full of happy 
anticipations they went off to bed. 

Punctually at five they were all seated round the 
breakfast-table, eagerly discussing the prospects of 
the day. 

“ I say, did any of you see the first sunbeam tip the 
Jungfrau this morning?” said Kennedy. “It looked 
like — like — what did it look like, Miss Home?” 

“Like the golden rim of a crown of pearls,” said 
Violet smiling. “ And did you see the morning star 
shining above the orange-colored line of morning 
light, over the hills behind us, Eva? What did that 
remind you of ? ” 

154 



JULIAN HOME. 155 

“O, I can’t invent poetic similes,” answered Eva, “I 
must take refuge in Wordsworth’s 

‘ Sweet as a star when only one 
Is shining in the sky.’ ” 

“Yes,” said Julian ; “or Browning’s 
‘ One star — the chrysolite ! ’ ” 

“ Hum ! ” said Cyril, who had been standing im- 
patiently at the door during the colloquy ; “ when you 
young ladies and people have done poetizing, etc., the 
guide’s quite ready.” 

“ Come along, then ; we’re soon equipped,” said 
Violet, adjusting at the looking-glass her pretty straw 
hat, with its drooping feather, and the blue veil tied 
round it. 

“ I say, Miss Kennedy — bother take it though, I can’t 
always be saying Miss Kennedy — it’s too long. I shall 
call you Eva — may I ? ” said Cyril. 

“By all means, if you like.” 

“Well, then, Eva, the guide is such a rum fellow; 
he looks like a revived mummy out of — out of 
Palmyra,” said he. 

“Mummy or no,” said Julian, “ he’ll carry all our 
provisions and plaids to-day up to the top, which is 
more than most of your A. C.’s would do.” 

“A. C. — what does that mean?” asked Violet. 
“One sees it constantly in the visitors’ books.” 

“ Don’t you know, Vi. ? ” said Cyril. “ It stands for 
4 athletic climber.’ ” 

“Alpine Club, you little monkey,” said Kennedy, 
throwing a fir-cone at him. “ You'll be qualified for 
the Alpine Club, Miss Home, before the day’s over, 
I’ve no doubt.” 

“ No,” said Julian, “they want 13,000 feet, I believe, 
and the Schilthorn is only 9000.” 

“Nearly three times higher than Snowdon; only 
fancy ! ” said Cyril. 

Meanwhile the party had started with fair weather 
and in high spirits. The guide, with the gentlemen’s 


156 


JULIAN HOME. 


plaids strapped together, led the way cheerily, occa- 
sionally talking his vile patois with Julian and Mr. 
Kennedy, or laughing heartily at Cyril’s “ bad lan- 
guage ” — for Cyril, not being strong in German, exer- 
cised a delightful ingenuity in making a very few 
words go a very long way. Kennedy walked generally 
with Eva and Violet, while Julian often joined them, 
and Cyril, always with some new scheme in hand, or 
some new fancy darting through his brain, ran chatter- 
ing from one group to another, plucking bilberries and 
wild strawberries in handfuls, and trying the merits 
of his alpenstock as a leaping-pole. 

The light of morning flowed down in an ever- 
broadening river, and peak after peak flashed first into 
rose, then into crimson, and then into golden light, as 
the sun fell on their fields of snow ; high overhead rose 
Alp after Alp of snow-white and luminous cloud, but 
the flowing curves of the hills themselves stood un- 
veiled, with their crests cut clearly on the pale, divine, 
lustrous blue of heaven, and our happy band of travel- 
lers gazed untired on that glorious panorama of glister- 
ing heights from the towering cones of the Eiger and the 
Moench to the crowding precipices of the Ebenen-fluen 
and the Silberhorn. Deep below them, in the valley, 
“like handfuls of pearl in a goblet of emerald,” the 
quiet chalets clustered over their pastures of vivid 
grass, and gave that touch of human interest which 
alone was wanting to complete the loveliness of the 
scene. 

Every step brought them some new object to gaze 
upon with loving admiration ; now the gaunt spurs of 
some noble pine that had thrust his gnarled roots into 
the crevices of rock to look down in safety on the jtor- 
rent roaring far below him, and now the track of a 
chamois, or the bright black eyes of some little marmot 
peering from his burrow on the side of a sunny bank, 
and whistling a quick alarm to his comrades at their 
play. 

“ What an extraordinary howl,” said Cyril, laughing, 
as the guide whooped back a sort of jodel in answer to 
a salute from the other side of the valley. 


JULIAN HOME. 


157 


“It’s very harmonious — is it not?” said Violet. 

“ Yes ; that’s one of the varieties of the Ranz des 
Vaches,” said Kennedy. 

“ And why do they shout at each other in that 
way ? ” 

“ Because the mountains are lonely, Cyril, and the 
shepherds don’t see human faces too often; so men 
begin to feel like brothers, and are glad to greet each 
other in these silent hills.” 

“Did you hear how the mountain echoed back his 
cry?” said Eva; “it sounded like a band of elves 
mocking at him.” 

“Yes, you’ll hear something finer directly ; the guide 
told me he was going to borrow an alpen-horn at one 
of these chalets, and then you’ll discover for the first 
time what echo can do.” 

In a few minutes the guide appeared with the horn, 
and blew. Heavens! what a melody of replications! 
How in the hollows of the hills every harsh tone died 
away, and all the softer notes flowed to and fro in 
tenderest music, and fainted in distant reverberations 
more and more exquisite, more and more exquisitely 
low. Can it be a mere echo of those rude blasts ? It 
seemed as though some choir of spirits had caught 
each tone as it came from the peasant’s horn, and bad 
deified it there among the clouds, and had repeated it 
over and over with divinest variations, to show man 
how crabbed were the sounds which he produced, and 
yet how ravishing they might one day become, when 
to the symphony of silver strings they rang out amid 
the seraph harps and choral harmonies of heaven. All 
the party stood still in rapturous attention, and even 
Cyril forgot for ten minutes his frolicsome and noisy 
mirth. 

Reader, have you ever seen an Alpine pasture in 
warm July at early morning? If not, you can hardly 
conceive the glorious carpet over winch the feet of the 
wanderer in Switzerland press during summer tours. 
Around them, as they passed, the soft mosses glowed 
with gold and crimson, and the edges of the lady’s- 
mantle shimmered with such diamonds and pearls as 


158 


JULIAN HOME. 


never adorned a lady’s mantle yet. Everywhere the 
grass was vivid with a many-colored tissue of dew- 
dropped flowers : pale crocuses, and the bright crim- 
son-lake carnation, and monk’s-hood, and crane’s-bill, 
and Aster alpinus, and the lovely Myosotis, and thou- 
sands of yellow and purple flowers, nameless or lovelier 
than their names, were the tapestry on which they 
trod ; and it was interwoven through warp and woof 
with the blue gleam of a myriad harebells. At last 
they came to the cold region of those delicate nurslings 
of the hills, the gentianellas and gentians. Kennedy, 
who had been keenly on the look-out, was the first of 
the party to find the true Alpine gentian, and, instantly 
recognizing it, ran with it to Violet and his sister. 

“ There,” he said, “ the first Alpine gentian you 
ever saw. Did you ever know real blue in a flower 
before? Doesn’t it actually seem to shed a blue radi- 
ation round it ? ” 

“ How perfectly beautiful ! ” said Violet ; “ see, Eva, 
how intense blue and green seem to be shot into each 
other, or to play together like the waters of a shoaling 
sea.” 

“ Shall I take a root or two ? ” said Kennedy. 

“Not the slightest use,” said Julian; “they only 
grow at certain elevations, and would be dead’ before 
you got down.” 

“ Isn’t it strange, Violet, that Nature should fling 
such a tender and exquisite gem so high up among 
these awful hills, where so few eyes see them.” 

“ Just look,” said Julian, “ how the moss and the 
grass seem to be illuminated with them, as though the 
heavens were golden, and the stars in it were of blue.” 

While they talked, Cyril dashed past them with all 
the ardor of a young entomologist in full chase of a 
little mountain-ringlet, which he soon caught and 
pinned on the top of his straw hat. In a few minutes 
more he had added a great fritillery to his collection, 
and it gave him no trouble to pick out the finest of the 
superb lazy-flying Apollos, which quickly shared the 
same fate. 

, “ Here’s another for you, Cyril,” said Eva, pointing 


JULIAN HOME . 


159 


to a gorgeous peacock-butterfly which had settled ami- 
cably by a bee on the pink-and-downy coronet of a 
great thistle. 

“ O, I don’t want that ; one can get it any day in 
England ; here though, look at this lovely burnetmoth,” 
he cried, as the blue-and-red-winged little creature 
settled on the same thistle-head. 

“ What a shame to disturb that beautiful Psyche,” 
said Julian, as Cyril dashed his cap over the prey, and 
the peacock fluttered off ; “ it was enjoying itself so 
intensely in the sunshine, opening and shutting its 
wings in unmitigated contentment.” But Cyril had 
secured his moth without heeding the remark, and was 
now twenty yards ahead. 

A sudden roar of sound stopped him, and he waited 
to ask the rest “if they had heard the thunder?” 

“ It wasn’t thunder, but the rush of an avalanche,” 
said Kennedy ; “ there you may see it still on the side 
of the Jungfrau.” 

“ What ! those little white streaks, which look like 
a mountain torrent.” 

“Yes.” 

“ And can those threads of snow make all that row ? ” 

“ You must remember that the threads of snow are 
five miles off, and are perhaps thousands of tons in 
weight.” 

By this time they had reached the part of the moun- 
tain where the climb became really toilsome, and they 
settled down into the steady pace which the Swiss 
guides always adopt because they know that it is the 
quickest in the long run. And at this point Mr. Ken- 
nedy and Mrs. Dudley left them, preferring, like sen- 
sible old people, to stroll back in quiet, and avoid an 
exertion which they found too fatiguing. They knew 
that they could safely entrust the party to the care of 
Julian and the guide. The ladies often needed help, 
and there seemed to be something very pleasant to 
Kennedy in the light touch of Violet’s hand, for he lent 
her his arm or his alpenstock oftener than was abso- 
lutely required. They only stopped once more to 
quench their thirst at a streamlet which was rushing 


160 


JULIAN HOME. 


impetuously down the rocks, and a little below them 
foamed over the precipice into a white and noisy cat- 
aract. 

‘ I never noticed water before falling from such a 
height,” said Julian ; “it looks exactly like a succes- 
sion of white comets plunging through the sky in a 
crowd.” 

“ Or a throng of wliite-sheeted ghosts hurrying de- 
liriously through the one too narrow entrance of the 
lower world,” said Kennedy. “Doesn’t it remind one 
of Schiller’s line — 

" Unb e§ toaflet uttb fiebct unb braufct unb .SW ? " 

“ I admire the rainbow most which over-arches the 
fall, and plays into light, or dies away as the sunbeams 
touch the foam,” said Violet. 

“Doesn’t it remind you of Al-Sirat’s arch, Miss 
Home ? ” asked Kennedy. 

“ Haven’t the pleasure of that gentleman’s acquaint- 
ance,” observed Cyril. 

“ Nor I,” said Kennedy ; “ but Al-Sirat’s arch is 
the bridge — narrow as the edge of a razor, or the thread 
of an attenuated spider — which is supposed to span the 
fiery abyss, over which the good skate into Paradise, 
while the bad topple over it. Don’t you remember 
Byron’s lines about it in the Giaour ? 

‘ Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 
That form was naught but breathing clay, 

By Alla ! I would answer nay ; 

Though on Al-Sirat’s arch I stood, 

That topples o’er the fiery flood, 

With Paradise within my view, 

And all its Houris beckoning through.’ 

“Pretty nearly the only lines of Byron I know.” 
Somehow Kennedy was looking at Violet while he 
repeated the lines. 

A few minutes more brought them on to the great 
field of snow, through which they toiled along labori- 
ously, treading as much as possible in the footsteps of 
the guide. 

“ This isn’t a glacier, is it?” asked Cyril., 


JULIAN HOME. 


161 


“ Ob, dear, no ! If it were, you wouldn’t find it such 
easy walking, for it would be full of hidden crevasses, 
and we should have to march much more carefully, 
occasionally poking our feet through the snow that 
lightly covers a fathomless depth.” 

“Yes! you must have read in Murray that eerie 
story of the guide that actually tumbled, though not 
very deep, into the centre of the glacier, and found his 
way back to light down the bed of a sub-glacial tor- 
rent, with no worse result than a broken arm.” 

“There is a still eerier story, though, of two 
brothers,” said Kennedy, “of whom one fell into a 
crevasse, and was caught on a ledge some fifty feet 
down, where he could be actually seen and heard.” 

“ Did he ever get out ? ” asked Violet. 

“Yes; the guide went back four hours’ walk, and 
brought ropes and assistance just before dark, and 
meanwhile the other brother waited anxiously by the 
side of the crevasse, talking and letting down brandy 
and other things to keep the poor fellow alive. He 
did escape, but not without considerable risk of being 
frozen to death.” 

Beguiling the way with talk, they at last got over 
the tedious climb, and reached the summit. Eva and 
Violet were very tired, but the difficult and eager air 
of the icy mountain-top was exhilarating as new wine, 
and the provisions they had brought with them rein- 
vigorated them completely. To hungry and thirsty 
climbers black bread and vin ordinaire taste like nectar 
and ambrosia. The day was cloudless, the view un- 
speakably magnificent, and Cyril’s high spirits were 
contagious. They lingered long before they began the 
descent, and laughingly pooh-poohed the guide’s re- 
peated suggestion that it was getting late. 

“ I bet you Kennedy has been writing poetry,” said 
Cyril ; “ do make him read it, Julian.” 

“ Hear, hear !” said all in chorus, and Julian with 
playful force possessed himself of the pocket-book, 
while Kennedy, only asseverating that the verses were 
addressed to nobody in particular, fled from the sound 
of his own lyrics, which Julian proceeded to read. 
ii 


162 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ Rose-opals of the sunlit hills 

Are flashing round my lonely way, 

And cataracts dash the hissing rills, 

To plumes of glimmering spray. 

But mountain-streams, and sunny gleams, 

Are not so dear to me, 

As dawning of the golden love, 

My spirit feels for thee ? 

“ Their diamond crowns and giant forms, 

The lordly hills upraise ; 

Nor rushing winds nor shattering storms 
Can shake their solid base ; 

Though Europe rests beneath their crests, 

And empires sleep secure, 

Less firm their bases than my love, 

Their snow less brightly pure.” 

“There, rubbish enough,” said Kennedy, returning 
and snatching away the pocket-book before Julian 
could read another verse. “ ‘ Like coffee made without 
trouble, drunk without regret, 5 as the Monday Oracle, 
with only too much leniency, observed in a recent 
article.” 

“ Of course addressed quite to an imaginary object, 
Eddy,” said Eva, while Violet looked towards the hills, 
and hoped that the glow which covered her fair face 
might be taken for a reflection of the faint tinge that 
already began to fall over the distant ridges of pale 
snow. 

“We really must come away,” said Julian; “it’ll 
be sunset very soon, and then we shall have to climb 
down nearly in the dark.” 

So they left the ridge, and while Kennedy and Cyril, 
amid shouts of laughter, glissaded gallantly over the 
slopes of snow, Julian and the guide conducted the 
girls by a method less rapid, but more secure. Ar- 
rived at the rocks, Cyril went forward with the guide, 
Julian followed with Eva, and Kennedy with Violet 
led up the rear. 

Why did they linger so long! Violet was tired no 
doubt, but could she not have walked as fast as Eva, 
or was Kennedy’s arm less stout than Julian’s ? She 
lingered, it seemed, with something of a conscious pleas- 


JULIAN HOME. 


163 


ure, now to pluck a flower or a fern, now to look at 
some yellow lichens on the purple crags ; and once, 
when Julian looked back, the two were some way be- 
hind the rest of the party. They were standing on a 
rock gazing on the fading splendor of the mountains 
in front of them, while the light wind that had risen 
during the sunset, flung back his hair from his fore- 
head, and played with one golden tress which had 
strayed down Violet’s neck. He shouted to them to 
make haste, and they waved their hands to him with 
a gay salute. Thinking that they would soon over- 
take him, he pressed forwards with Eva, and did not 
look back again. 

While Kennedy walked on with Violet in silence 
more sweet than speech, they fell into a dreamy mood, 
and wandered on half-oblivious of things around them, 
while deeper and deeper the shades of twilight began 
to cast their gloom over the hills. 

“ Look, Violet, I mean Miss Home ; the moon is in 
crescent, and we shall have a pleasant evening walk ; 
won’t it be delightful?” 

“Yes,” she murmured; but neither of them ob- 
served that the clouds were gathering thick and fast, 
and obscured all except a few struggling glimpses of 
scattered stars. 

They came to a sort of stile formed by two logs of 
wood iaid across the gap in a stone wall, and Kennedy 
vaulting over it, gave her his hand. 

“ Surely,” she said, stopping timidly for a moment, 
“we did not pass over this in coming, did we?” 

Kennedy looked back. “No,” he said, “I don’t re- 
member it; but no doubt it has been put up merely for 
the night to prevent the cattle from going astray.” 

They went forward, but a deeper and deeper misgiv- 
ing filled Violet’s mind that they had chosen a wrong 
road. 

“ I think,” she said with a fluttered voice, “ that the 
path looks much narrower than it did this morning. 
Do you see the others ? ” 

They both strained their eyes through the gloom, 
now rendered more thick than ever by the dark 


164 


JULIAN HOME. 


driving clouds, but they could see no trace of their 
companions, and though they listened intently, not 
the faintest sound of voices reached their eager ears. 

They spoke no word, but a few steps farther brought 
them to a towering rock around the base of which the 
path turned, and then seemed to cease abruptly in a 
mass of loose shale. It was too clear now. They had 
lost their road and turned, whilst they were indulging 
those golden fancies, into a mere cattle-path worn by 
the numerous herds of goats and oxen, the music of 
whose jangling bells still came to them now and then 
in low sweet snatches from the pastures of the valley 
and hill. 

What was to be done ? They were alone amid the 
all but unbroken silence, and the eternal solitudes of 
the now terrible mountain. The darkness began to 
brood heavily above them ; no one was in sight, and 
when Kennedy shouted there was no answer, but only 
an idle echo of his voice. Sheets of mist were sweep- 
ing round them, and at length the gusts of wind drove 
into their faces cold swirls of plashing rain. 

“Oh, Mr. Kennedy, what can we do? do shout 
again.” 

Once more Kennedy sent his voice ringing through 
the mist and darkness, and once more there was no 
answer, except that to their now excited senses it 
seemed as if a scream of mocking laughter was carried 
back to them upon the wind. And clinging tightly to 
his arm, as he wrapped her in his plaid to shelter her 
from the wet, she again cried, “ O, Edward, what must 
we do ? ” 

Even in that fearful situation — alone on the moun- 
tain, in the storm, — he felt within him a thrill of 
strength and pleasure that she called him Edward, and 
that she clung so confidingly upon his arm. 

“ Dare you stay here, Violet,” he asked, “ while I 
run forward and try to catch some glimpse of a 
light?” 

“0 1 dare not, I dare not,” she cried; “you might 
miss your way in coming back to me, and I should be 
alone.” 


JtfLtAH HOME. 


165 


He saw that she loved him ; he had read the secret 
of her heart, and he was happy. Passionately he drew 
her towards him, and on her soft fragrant cheek — on 
which the pallor of dread had not yet extinguished the 
glow which had been kindled by the mountain wind — 
he printed a lover’s kiss ; but in maidenly reserve she 
drew back, and was afraid to have revealed her secret, 
and once more she said, “ Oh, Mr. Kennedy, we shall 
die if we stay here unsheltered in this storm.” 

As though to confirm her words, the thunder began to 
growl, and while the sounds of it were beaten back with 
long loud hollow buffetings from the rocks on every 
side, the blue and winged flash of lightning glittered 
before their eyes, cleaving a rift with dazzling and vivid 
intensity amid the purple gloom. 

“Stay here but one instant, Violet — Miss Home,” he 
said ; “ I will climb this rock to see if any light is near, 
and will be with you again in a moment.” 

He bounded actively up the rock, reckless of danger, 
and gazed from the summit into the night. For a 
second another flash of lightning half-blinded him with 
its lurid glare, but when he was again accustomed to 
the darkness, he saw a dull glimmer in the distance, 
and supposing it to come from the hotel, sprang down 
the rock again to Violet’s side. 

“ This way,” he said, “ dear Violet ; I see a light, and 
from the direction of it, I think it must be from our 
hotel. Keep up courage, and we shall soon reach it.” 

Dangerous as it was to hurry over the wet and slip- 
pery shale, and down the steep sides of the rugged hill, 
Kennedy half-drew, half-carried her along with swift 
steps towards the place from which the dim light still 
seemed to allure them by its wavering and uncertain 
flicker. 



CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH. 

A NIGHT OF TERROR. 

“ For the strength of the hills we bless Thee, 

Our God, our Father’s God ; 

Thou hast made our spirits mighty, 

By the touch of the mountain sod ! ” 

Hemans. 

“ Here you all are, then,” said the cheerful voice of 
Mr. Kennedy, as Julian, Eva, and Cyril, followed by the 
guide, entered the little Milrrem Inn. 

“Here are three of us,” answered Julian, “haven’t 
Edward and Violet arrived ? Not having seen them 
for the last half-hour, I fancied they must have got 
before us by some short cut.” 

“ No, they’ve not come yet. Fortunately for you, 
Eva, Aunt Dudley is very tired and has gone to bed,” 
he said laughing, “ otherwise you would have got a 
scolding for not taking better care of Violet.” 

“ Oh, then, they must be close behind somewhere for 
certain,” said Julian; “they could not have missed 
the path — it lay straight before us the whole way.” 

“ Well, I hope they’ll be in soon, for it begins to look 
lowering. I’ve ordered tea for you; make haste and 
come down to it. You’re ready for tea, Cyril, I have 
no doubt.” 

“ Bather ! ” said Cyril, reviving ; for fatigue had 
made him very quiet during the last half-hour. And, 
indeed, the tempting-looking display on the table, the 
bright teapot, and substantial meal, and amber-colored 
honey, would have allured a more fastidious appetite. 

They ran upstairs to make themselves comfortable 
166 


JULIAN HOME. 


167 


before having tea and retiring to bed, and on re-enter- 
ing the warm and glowing room, the first question 
was, “ Have they come ? ” 

“No,” said Mr. Kennedy anxiously, and even the 
boy’s face grew grave and thoughtful as Julian rose 
from the tea-table and said, “ I must go and search for 
them. ” 

He seized his straw hat, put on his boots again, and 
ran out, calling on the guide to accompany him. They 
took out with them a lighted torch, but it was in- 
stantly extinguished by the streaming rain. Julian 
and the guide shouted at the top of their voices, but 
heard no sound in reply ; and the darkness was now 
so intense that it was madness to proceed farther amid 
that howling storm. 

They ran back to the inn, where the rest sat round 
the table, pale and trembling with excessive fear. In 
reply to their hasty questions, Julian could only shake 
his head sorrowfully. 

“The guide says that in all probability they must 
have been overtaken by the storm, and have run to 
some chalet for refuge. If so, they will be safe and 
well-treated till the morning.” 

“ You children had better go to bed,” said Mr. Ken- 
nedy to Eva and Cyril, who reluctantly obeyed. “ You 
cannot be of any help, and directly the storm begins 
to abate, Julian and I will go and find the others.” 

“O papa,” sobbed Eva; “poor Eddy and Violet! 
what will become of them ; perhaps they have been 
struck by the lightning.” 

“ They are in God’s hand, dearest,” he said, tenderly 
kissing her tearful face, “as we all are. In His hand 
they are as safe as we.” 

“ In God’s hand, dear Eva,” said Julian, as he bade 
her good-night. “ Go to sleep, and no doubt they will 
be here safe before you awake.” 

“I shall not sleep, Julian,” she whispered ; “ I shall 
go and pray for their safety. Dear, dear Eddy and 
Violet.” 

Cyril lingered in the room. 

“ Do let me stay up with you, Julian. I couldn’t 


168 


JULIAN 110 ME. 


sleep — indeed, I couldn’t ; and I might be of some use 
when morning comes, and when you go to look for 
them. Do let me stay, Julian.” 

Julian could not resist his brother’s wish, though 
Mr. Kennedy thought it best that the boy should go 
to bed. So they compromised matters by getting him 
to lie down on the sofa while they sat up, and stared 
out of the windows silently into the rain. How 
wearily the time goes by when we dread a danger 
which no action can avert ! 

Meanwhile the objects of their anxiety had hurried 
up to the light, and found that it came from the rag- 
ged windows of an old tumble-down tenement, built 
of pine-boards which the sun had dried and charred 
until they looked black and stained and forbidding. 
Going up the rotten wooden steps to the door, and look- 
ing through the broken windows, Kennedy saw two 
men seated, smoking, with a flaring tallow candle 
between them. 

“ Must we go in there ? ” asked Violet ; and Kennedy 
observed how her arm and the tones of her voice were 
trembling with agitation. 

“Isn’t it better than staying out in this dreadful 
storm?” said Kennedy. “ The Swiss are an honest 
people, and I daresay these are herdsmen who will 
gladly give us food and shelter.” 

Their voices had roused the inmates of the chalet, 
and both the men jumped up from their seats, while 
a large and fierce dog also shook himself from sleep, 
and gave a low deep growl. 

Kennedy knocked at the door. A gruff voice bade 
him enter? and as he stepped over the threshold, the 
dog flew at him with an angry bark. Violet uttered 
a cry of fear, and Kennedy struck the dog a furious 
blow with the nobbed end of his alpen-stock which for 
the moment stunned the animal, while it drew down 
on the heads of the tired and fainting travellers some 
very rough expostulations. 

“Can you give us shelter?” said Kennedy, win- 
spoke German with tolerable fluency. “ We have los 
our way, and cannot stay out in this storm.” 


JULIAN HOME. 


169 


The man snarled an affirmative, and Violet observed 
with a shudder that he was an ill-looking, one-eyed 
fellow, with villany stamped legibly on every feature. 
The other peasant looked merely stolid and dirty, and 
seemed to be little better than a cretin, as he sat 
heavily in his place without offering to stir. 

“ Can’t you give us some food, or at any rate some 
milk? We have been to the top of the Schilthorn, and 
are very tired.” 

The man brought out a huge coarse wooden bowl 
of goat’s milk, and some sour bread ; and feeling in 
real need of food, they tried to eat and drink. While 
doing so, Kennedy noticed that Violet gave a percept- 
ible start; and looking up, observed the one eye of 
their grim entertainer intently fixed on the gold watch- 
chain which hung over his silk jersey. He stared the 
man full in the face, finished his meal, and then asked 
for a candle to show the lady to her room. 

“No light but this,” said the Cyclops, as Kennedy 
mentally named him. 

“ Then you must lend me this.” 

And taking it without more ado, he went first to 
the cupboard from which the milk had been produced, 
where seeing another dip, he coolly took it, lighted it, 
and pushed open the creaking door which opened on 
the close, damp closet which the man had indicated as 
the only place where Violet could sleep. 

This room opened on another rather larger ; and 
here, putting the candle on the floor, for the room (if 
room it could be called) was destitute of all furniture, 
he spread his plaid on the ground over some straw, 
and said — 

“ Try to sleep here, Miss Home, till morning. I 
will keep watch in the outer room.” 

He shut the door, went back to the two men, looked 
full at them both, and leaving them their candle, 
returned to the closet, where, fastening the door with 
his invaluable alpen-stock, he sat on the ground by 
the entrance of Violet’s room. He knew well that she 
could not sleep in such a situation ; and he himself 
determined to sit in perfect silence, to keep watch, and to 


170 


JULIAN HOME. 


commend himself and her, whom he now knew that 
he loved more than himself, in inward supplication to 
the merciful protection of their God and Father. 

He felt a conviction that they had fallen into bad 
hands. The man’s anger had first been stirred by the 
severe wound which Kennedy had in self-defence in- 
flicted on the dog, and now there was too much reason 
to dread that his cupidity had been excited by the 
sight of the gold chain, and by Violet’s ornaments, 
which gave promise that he might by this accident 
gain a wealthy prize. 

After an interval of silence, during which he per- 
ceived that they listened at his door and were deceived 
by his measured breathing into a notion that he was 
asleep, he noticed that they put out the candle, and 
continued to whisper in low thick voices. He was 
very, very weary, his head nodded many times, and 
more than once he was afraid that sleep would over- 
come him, especially as he dared not stir or change his 
position ; but the thought of Violet’s danger, and the 
blaze of the lightning mingled with the yell of the 
wind kept him watchful, and he spent the interminable 
moments in thinking how to act when the attack 
came. 

At last, about an hour and a half after he had retired, 
he heard the men stir, and with a thrill of horror he 
detected the sound of guns being loaded. Violet’s 
candle was yet burning, as he perceived by the faint 
light under her door, so he wrote on a leaf of his 
pocket-book in the dark, “ Don’t be afraid, Violet, 
whatever you may hear ; trust in God,” and noise 
lessly pushed it under the crevice of the door into her 
room. 

The muffled footsteps approached, but he never 
varied the sound of his regular breathing. At last 
came a push at the door, followed by silence, and then 
the whisper, “ he has fastened it.” Still he did not 
stir till he observed that they were both close against 
the door and were preparing to force it open. Then 
guided by a swift instinctive resolution, he determined 
to trust to the effects of an unexpected alarm. Noise- 


JULIAN HOME. 


171 


lessly moving his alpen-stock, he suddenly and with 
all his force dashed the door open, shouted aloud, and 
with his utmost violence swung round the heavy iron 
spike. A hash, the report of a gun, and a yell of 
anguish instantly followed ; and as Violet in terror 
and excitement threw open her door, the light which 
streamed from it showed Kennedy in a moment that 
the foremost villain, startled by the sudden opposi- 
tion, had accidentally fired off his gun, of which the 
whole contents had lodged themselves in the shoulder 
of his comrade. This second man had also armed him- 
self with a chamois-gun, which slipped out of his hands 
as he fell wounded to the ground. Springingforward, 
Kennedy wrenched it out of his relaxing grasp, and 
presented it full at the head of the other, who, half- 
stunned with the blow he had received from the heavy 
iron-shod point of the ashen alpen-stock, was crouch- 
ing for concealment in the corner of the chalet. 

“Violet,” he said, “ all is now safe. These wretches 
are disarmed ; if you like to take shelter here till the 
morning, I can secure you from any further attack. 
If you stir but an inch,” he continued, addressing the 
un wounded man, “ I will shoot you dead. Lay down 
your gun.” 

The man’s one eye glared with rage and hatred, but 
Kennedy still held the loaded gun at his head, and he 
was forced sullenly to obey. Kennedy put Ids foot 
upon the gun, and was in perplexity what to do next, 
fearing that the wounded peasant, who was moaning 
heavily, might nevertheless spring at him from behind, 
and also momentarily dreading an attack from the 
dog, who kept up a sullen growl. 

“Let us leave this dreadful place,” said Violet, who, 
pale but undaunted at the horrors of the scene, had 
taken refuge by Kennedy’s side. 

“Dare you pick up and carry the gun ?” he asked. 
“It would be dangerous to leave it in their hands.” 

Violet picked it up, where it lay under his feet, and 
then glided rapidly out of the chalet, while Kennedy 
slowly followed, never once taking his eye from his 
crouching antagonist. Before he stepped into the open 


172 


JULIAN HOME. 


air he said to the men, “ If I hear but one footstep in 
pursuit of us, I will shoot one of you dead.” 

“ O what a relief to be in the open air once more ! ” 
said Violet as she grasped Kennedy’s arm, and he cau- 
tiously led her down a rude path which was faintly 
marked a few hundred yards from the lonely cottage 
where they had been. “Are we safe now, do you 
think ? ” 

“ Yes, quite safe, Violet, I trust. They will not dare 
pursue me now that their guns are gone, and I have 
this loaded one in my hand.” 

“Dear, brave Mr. Kennedy. IIow shall I ever 
thank you enough for having saved my life so nobly ? 
If you had not been so strong and watchful we should 
both have now been killed.” 

“ I would die a thousand deaths,” he whispered, “ to 
save you from the least harm, Violet. But you are 
tired, you must rest here till the dawn. Sit under 
this rock, and cover yourself with my plaid. I will 
keep watch still.” 

She sat down wearily, and her head sank upon the 
rock. The storm was over : the thunder was still 
muttering like a baffled enemy in the distance, but 
the wind, after its late fury, was sobbing gently and 
fitfully like a repentant child. The rock gave her 
shelter, and after her fatigue and agitation she was 
sleeping peacefully, while Kennedy bowed down his 
head, and thanked God for the merciful protection 
which He had extended to them. 

He had not been seated long when his eye caught 
the light of torches being waved at a distance in the 
direction of the hotel. In an instant he felt sure that 
Julian was come out to search for them, and gently 
awakening Violet, he told her with a thrill of joy that 
help was at hand. The torches drew nearer the place 
where they were seated, and he raised a joyous shout. 
As yet they were too far off to hear him, but suddenly 
it occurred to him to fire his gun. The flash and 
echoing report attracted their notice; the torches grew 
rapidly nearer; he could almost see the dark figures 
of those who carried them ; and now in answer to his 


JULIAN HOME. 


173 


second shout came the hurried sound of familiar voices, 
and in five minutes more Julian and his father had 
grasped him by the hands, and Cyril had flung his 
arms round Violet’s neck. 

It was no time for questionings. Julian passed his 
arm round his sister’s waist, and aided by Mr. Ken- 
nedy, half-carried her to their hotel. Kennedy leaned 
heavily on .the guide’s arm ; the honest landlord, who 
accompanied the searching-party, carried the plaid, 
the alpen-stock, and one of the guns, and Cyril, im- 
pressed by the strange scene, carried the other gun, 
full of wondering conjecture what Kennedy could have 
been doing with it, and from whence it could have 
come. 

And when Violet reached Eva’s room, in which she 
slept, she could only say, as they sat locked in a long 
embrace, “ Dearest Eva, it is only through Edward that 
my life has been saved.” 

Eva had never before heard Violet call her brother 
by his name, and she was glad at heart. 




CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH. 

THE ALPEN-GLUHEN. 

“ And last of all, 

Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears, 

By some cold morning glacier.” 

The Princess. 

Violet’s fluttered nerves and wearied frame ren- 
dered it necessary for the party of English travellers 
to stay for a few days at Mtirrem, and afterwards it 
was decided that they should all go down to Grindel- 
wald, and spend there the remainder of the time which 
they had set apart for the Swiss tour. The landlord 
of the Jungfrau treated them with the utmost con- 
sideration, and amused Kennedy by paying him as much 
deference as if he had been Tell or Arnold himself. 
Leaving in his hands all endeavors to discover the 
two scoundrels, who had entirely decamped, Kennedy 
gave him one of the guns, while he carried with him 
the other to keep as a trophy in his rooms at Cam- 
ford. 

There are few sights more pleasant than that of two 
families bound together by the ties of friendship and 
affection, and living together as though they were all 
brothers and sisters of a common home. For long 
years afterwards the Homes and the Kennedys looked 
back on those days at Grindelwald as among the hap- 
piest of their lives, and, indeed, they glided by like a 
dream of unbroken pleasure. How is it that there can 
be such a thing as ennui, or that people ever can be at 
a loss what to do? In the morning they took short ex- 
174 


JULIAN HOME. 


175 


cursions to the glaciers or the roots of the great mount- 
ains, and Cyril made adventurous expeditions with his 
fishing-rod to the mountain streams. And at evening 
they sat in the long twilight in the balcony of their 
room, while Eva and Violet sang them sweet, simple 
English songs, which rang so softly through the air 
that the crowd of guides and porters which always 
hang about a Swiss hotel used to gather in the streets 
to listen, and the English visitors collected in the gar- 
den to catch the familiar tones. Julian and Kennedy 
always gave some hours every day to their books, and 
Cyril, though he could be persuaded to do little else, 
spent some of his unemployed time on his much-abused 
holiday- task for the ensuing quarter. 

And when the candles were lit the girls would sketch 
or work, and Julian or Kennedy would read or trans- 
late to them aloud. Sometimes they spent what Mr. 
Kennedy used to call “ an evening with the immortals,” 
and taking some volume of the poets, would each choose 
a favorite passage to read aloud in turn. This was 
Mr. Kennedy’s great delight, and he got quite enthu- 
siastic when the well-remembered lines came back to 
him with fresh beauty, borne on the pleasant voices of 
Eva, Julian, or Cyril, like an old jewel when new 
facets are cut on its lustrous surface. “Stop there; 
that’s an immortal, lad— an immortal,” he would say 
to Cyril, when the boy seemed to be passing over some 
“chromatic sequence of fine thought” without suffi- 
cient admiration ; and then he would repeat the pas- 
sage from memory with such just emphasis that on 
these evenings all felt that they were laying up pre- 
cious thoughts for happy future hours. 

“Now, Mrs. Dudley, and you young ladies, we’re 
going to translate you part of a Greek novel to-night,” 
said Julian. 

“ A Greek novel ! ” said Cyril, with a touch of in- 
credulous suspicion. “ Those old creatures didn’t write 
novels, did they?” 

“ Only the best novel that ever was written, Cyril ” 

“ What’s it called ? ” 

“The Odyssey,” 


176 


JULIAN HOME . 


“ O what a chouse ! you don’t mean to call that a 
novel, do you ? ” 

“ Well, let the ladies decide.” 

So he read to them how Ulysses returned in the 
guise of a beggar, after twenty years of war and wan- 
dering to his own palace-door, and saw the haughty 
suitors revelling in his halls ; and how, as he reached 
the door, Argus, the hunting-dog, now old and neg- 
lected, and full of fleas, recollected him when all had 
forgotten him, and fawned upon him, and licked his 
hand and died ; and how the suitors insulted him, and 
one of them threw a footstool at him, which by one 
quick move, he avoided, and said nothing, and another 
flung a shinbone, at his head, which he caught in his 
hand, and said nothing, but only smiled grimly in his 
heart — ever so little, a grim, sardonic smile ; and how 
the old nurse recognized him by the scar of the boar’s 
tusk on his leg, but he quickly repressed the exclama- 
tion of wonderment which sprang to her lips ; and how 
he sat, ragged but princely, by the fire in his hall, and 
the red light flickered over him, and he spake to the 
suitors words of solemn admonition ; and how, when 
Agelaus warned them, a strange foreboding seized their 
souls, and they looked at each other with great eyes, 
and smiled with alien lips, and burst into quenchless 
laughter, though their eyes were filled with tears of 
blood ; and how Ulysses drew his own mighty bow, 
which not one of them could use, and how he handled 
it, and twanged the string till it sang like a swallow in 
his ear, and sent the arrow flying with a whiz through 
the twelve iron rings of the line of axes ; and then, 
lastly, how, like to a god, he leaped on his own thresh- 
old with a shout, and emptied his quiver on the 
ground, and gathered his rags about him, and aided 
by the young Telemachus and the divine swineherd, 
sent hurtling into the band of wine-stained rioters the 
swift arrows of inevitable death. 

Pleased with the tale, which the girls decided, in 
spite of Cyril’s veto, to be a genuine novel, they asked 
for a new Greek romance, and Julian read to them from 
Herodotus about the rise and fall of empires, an4 


JULIAN HOME. 


177 


“ strange stories of the deaths of kings.” One of his 
stories was the famous one of Croesus, and the irony 
of his fate, and the warning words of Solon, all of 
which, rendered into quaint rich English, struck Cyril 
so much that, mingling up the tale with reminiscences 
of Longfellow’s “Blind Bartimeus,” he produced, with 
much modesty at the breakfast-table next morning, the 
following very creditable boyish imitation : — 

“ Speak Grecia’s wisest, thou, ’tis said, 

Full deeply in Life’s page hast read, 

And many a clime hath known my tread ; 

Tig Travruv oXfiiaraTog ; 


“ The monarch bent his eager eye, 

Gazed on the sage exultingly, 

And slow came forth the calm reply, 

T eTCXog 6 'Atfrjvalog. 

“ Upon his funeral pyre he lay 
Captive, his sceptre passed away, 

The shades of Solon seem to say, 

ovdeig ray ^ojvtuv oXj3iog. 

“ How little deemed that Grecian sage 
Those words should live from age to age, 

Tif Travruv blftioiTarog ; 

Te/l/l og 6 ’ A flrjvaiog. 

ovdeig tcjv £6vto)v b^fiiog” * 

In a manner such as this the summer hours* glided 
happily away. But all things, happy or mournful, 
must come to an end, lest we should forget God in our 
prosperity, or curse Him in our despair. Too quickly 
for all their wishes their last Sunday in Switzerland 
had come. Most of them had spent the day in thought- 
ful retirement or quiet occupations, and both morning 
and evening they assembled together in their pleasant 
sitting-room for matins and even-song. Their thoughts 
were full of the coming separation, and it gave a deep 
interest to these last services ; for the Homes, unwill- 

* These verses were really written by a boy of fourteen, 

12 


178 


JULIAN HOME. 


ing to leave their mother and Frank so long alone at 
Ildown, were to start for England on the following day, 
and the Kenndys intended to visit Chamouni for two 
weeks more. 

On the Sunday evening they strolled down to the 
glacier to look once again, for the last time, into its 
crevices, and wonder at its fairy caverns, fringed with 
icicles, like rows of silver daggers, and ceiled with trans- 
lucent sapphire, beneath whose blue fretwork the 
stray sunbeams lost their way amid ice-blocks of lu- 
minous green, and pillars of lapis-lazuli and crystal. 
They sat on a huge boulder of granite, which some 
avalanche had torn down, and tumbled from the mount- 
ain’s side, and there enjoyed the icy wind which tem- 
pered the warm evening air as it swept over the leap- 
ing waves of the glacier-stream. 

“What a mixture of terror and beauty these mon- 
strous glaciers are,” said Julian ; “ crawling down the 
valleys, and shearing away the solid rocks before them 
like gigantic ploughshares.” 

“Yes,” said Eva. “When you look up at the 
tumbled pinnacles of those seracs, does it not seem 
as if summer had rent in anger with some great ice- 
axe the huge enemy whom she could not quite de- 
stroy.” 

“ And see,” said Mr. Kennedy, “ how Nature gets 
out of these terrible heaps of shattered ice both use and 
beauty ; and since she must leave them as the eternal 
fountains of her rivers, see how she tinges them with 
her loveliest blue.” 

They talked on until it w^as time to return, but Violet 
and Kennedy still lingered, sitting on the vast boulder 
under pretence of seeing the sunset. 

“Well, don’t get lost again, that’s all,” said Cyril 
sagely. 

“ O no, we shall be back very soon,” answered Violet, 
but she felt instinctively that the “ very soon ” in time 
might measure an eternity of emotion. 

Need we say that Kennedy and Violet had, since that 
night of wiki adventure, loved each other, hour by 
hour, with deeper affection ? lie was young, and brave, 


UL1AN HOME. 


179 


and light-hearted, and of a pleasant countenance ; and 
she was a young, and confiding, and graceful, and 
lovely girl, and they were drawn to one another with 
a love which absorbed all other thoughts, and over- 
powered all other considerations ; and it was unspeak- 
able happiness for each to know how lovely were all 
their acts, and how dear were all their words in the 
other’s eyes. And now that the time was come to 
declare the love in words, and ratify it by a plighted 
troth, there was something in the act so solemn as 
almost to disturb their dream of a lover’s paradise. 

They sat silent on the rock until the sun had set 
behind the peaks of snow, and their eyes were filled 
with idle yet delicious tears. Ripples of luminous sun- 
shine, and banks of primrose-colored cloud, still lingered 
on the path which the sun had traversed, and when 
even these began to fade there stole along the hill-crests 
above them a film of tender color, flinging a veil of the 
softest carnation over their cold gray rocks and un- 
trodden fields of perpetual snow. 

“ Look, Violet, at that rose color on the hills ; does 
it not seem as it rests on those chill ledges as though 
Nature had said that her last act to-day should be a 
triumph of glory, and her last thought a thought of 
love?” 

Violet murmured an assent. 

“O Violet,” he continued, “you know that I love 
you, and I know that you love me ; — is it not so, 
Violet?” 

He hardly heard the “ Yes,” which came half like a 
sigh from her lips. 

“ Violet, dear Violet, we part to-morrow ; let me hear 
you say Yes more clearly still.” 

“You know I love you, Edward — did you not save 
my life ? ” 

“ I know you love me,” he repeated slowly, “ but 
O Violet, I am not worthy of you— I am not all you 
think me.” There passed over his fair forehead the 
expression of humiliation and pain which she had seen 
there with wonder once or twice before. 

“You are good and noble, Edward,” she answered; 


180 


JULIAN HOME . 


“ I see you to be good and noble, or I could not love 
you as I do.” 

“ No,” he said, “ Alas ! not good, not noble, Violet — 
in nowise worthy of one so pure, and bright, and 
beautiful as you are.” He bent his face over her hand, 
and his warm tears fell fast upon it. “ But,” he con- 
tinued, “I will strive to be so hereafter, Violet, for your 
sweet sake. Can you take me as I am ? will you make 
me good and noble, Violet, as Julian is? can you let the 
sunshine of your life fall on the shadow of mine?” 

She did not understand his passion as he raised to 
her his face, not bright and laughing as it generally 
was, but stained with the traces of many tears ; she only 
knew that he had won her whole heart, and for one 
moment she let her hand rest upon the head which he 
had bent once more. 

“O Violet,” he said, looking up again, “I can be 
anything if you love me.” In an instant the cloud had 
passed away from his face, and the old sunshine bright- 
ened his blue eyes. For one instant their eyes met 
with that lustrous and dewy love-gleam that only 
lovers know, but during that instant it seemed as if 
their souls had flowed together into a common fount. 
With a happy look she suffered him to take her hand, 
and draw off from her finger a sapphire ring ; this he put 
on his own finger, while on hers he replaced it by the 
gold-set ruby, his mother’s gift, which he usually wore. 

The crescent moon had risen as they walked home, 
and they found the rest of the party seated in the hotel 
garden, under her soft silver light ; but nobody seemed 
to be much in a mood for talking, until that little 
monkey Cyril, who observed everything, exclaimed — 

“ Why, Julian, do look ; Violet has got Kennedy’s 
ring on, and — well I declare if he hasn’t got hers.” 

“Let us all come upstairs,” said Kennedy hastily; 
and then, before them all, he drew Violet to his side, 
and said — 

“Julian, Violet and I are betrothed to each other.” 

“ As I thought,” said Julian with a smile, as a rush 
of sudden emotion made his eyes glisten, and he warmly 
grasped Kennedy’s hand. 


JULIAN HOME. 181 

“ And as I hoped, Julian,” said Mr. Kennedy, as he 
turned away to wipe his spectacles, which somehow 
had grown dim. 

The moonlight streamed over them as the two stood 
there together — young, happy, hopeful, beautiful ; and 
while Cyril held Kennedy’s hand, Eva and Violet ex- 
changed a sister’s kiss. 

And Julian looked on with a glow of happiness — 
happiness that had one drawback only — a passing 
shadow of sorrow for the possible feelings of De Vayne. 




CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. 

ONLY A BLUSH. 

“ Erubuit ! salva res est ! ” — Plaut. 

Back from the glistening snow-fields, where every 
separate crystal flashes with a separate gleam of light 
— back from the Alpine pastures, embroidered with 
their tissue of innumerable flowers, over which, like 
winged flowers, the butterflies fluttered continually — 
back from the sunlit silver mantle of the everlasting 
hills, and the thunder of the avalanche, and the wild 
leap of the hissing cataract — back to the cold gray flats 
and ancient towers of Camford, and the lazy windings 
of its muddy river, and the strife and struggle of a uni- 
versity career. 

Kennedy arrived at Camford at mid-day, and as 
but few men had yet come up, he beguiled the time by 
going out to make the usual formal call on His tutor. 
As he passed the door of the room where temptation 
had brought on him so many heavy hours, he could 
hardly repress an involuntary shudder; but on the 
whole he was in high spirits, and Mr. Grayson received 
him with something almost approaching to cordiality. 

“ You did very well in the examination, Mr. Ken- 
nedy ; very well indeed. With diligence you might 
have been head of your year — as it was, you were in 
the first ten.” 

“ Was Owen head of the year, sir?” 

“No, Home was head ; his brilliant composition and 
thorough knowledge of the books brought him to the 
top. Either he or Owen were first in all the papers 
except one.” 

182 


JULIAN SOME. 


183 


“ Which was that, sir ? ” 

“The iEschylus paper, in which yon were first 
Mr. Kennedy ; you did it remarkably accurately. If 
you had seen the paper you could hardly have done it 
better.” 

“Indeed! Would you give me a library order, 
sir?” said Kennedy, rising abruptly, to change the 
subject. Mr. Grayson was offended at this sudden 
change of subject, and silently writing the order, bade 
Kennedy a cold “ good-morning.” All that Kennedy 
hoped w\as, that he would not tell others as well as 
himself the odious fact of his success. 

The thought damped his spirits, but he shook it off. 
The novelty of returning as a junior soph, the pleasure 
of meeting the familiar faces once more, the conscious- 
ness of that bright change of existence which during 
the past vacation had bound the golden thread of 
Violet’s destiny with his, filled him with inward exult- 
ation. And then there was real delight in the warmth 
with which he was greeted by all alike. 

He found himself, very unexpectedly, a hero in the 
general estimation. The romantic adventure on the 
Schilthorn had been rumored about among the numer- 
ous English visitors to the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, 
until it had reached the editor of a local paper, and so 
had flowed through Galignani into the general stream 
of the English journals. True, the names had been 
suppressed, but all the St. Werner’s men knew who 

was intended by “Mr. K y,” and as he entered 

the hall he was greeted on all sides with eager ques- 
tions. 

“ I say, Mr. K y,” said one, “ you’ve been going 

through some rather exciting adventures lately.” 

“Yes; how do you enjoy robber-shooting?” asked 
another, in chaff. 

“ I didn't shoot any one,” said Kennedy. 

“ No, you very leerily managed to make the other 
fellow shoot him. Preserve me from my friends, must 
have been his secret reflections.” 

“Have you kept the guns, Kennedy? you must let 
me have a look after hall.” 


184 


JULIAN HOME. 


While this kind of talk was going on, Brogten, who 
was nearly opposite to Kennedy, sat silent, and watched 
him. He did not join in the remarks about the night 
adventure in Switzerland, but when there was a slight 
pause in the fire of questions, he turned the conversa- 
tion to the subject of the May examination. 

“Those are not your only triumphs, Kennedy, it 
appears. You seem to have been doing uncommonly 
well in the examination, too.” 

“ O ay, you were in the first ten,” said Suton ; “ Mr. 
Grayson told me so.” 

“ Who was first ? ” asked Lillyston. 

“ Oh, Home of course ; except in one paper, and 
Kennedy was first in that.” 

“ I believe that was the iEschylus paper,” said Brog- 
ten, throwing the slightest unusual emphasis into his 
tone ; “ you were first in that, weren’t you, Kennedy ? ” 

The men were surprised to hear Brogten address 
him with such careless familiarity, knowing the old 
quarrel that existed between them; and they were 
still more surprised to hear Brogten interest himself 
about a topic usually so indifferent to him as the result 
of an examination. It seemed particularly strange that 
he should give himself any trouble to inquire about 
the present list, because he himself had been posted, in 
company with Hazlet and Lord Fitzurse — i.e., their 
names had been written up below the eighth class as 
“ unworthy to be classed .” 

“Was I?” said Kennedy in the most careless tone 
he could assume. 

“Yes— really, didn’t you know it? You did it so 
well that Grayson said you couldn't have done the 
'paper better if you had seen it beforehand .” 

“I say, Kennedy, you must have come out swell, 
then,” said another ; “ for Grayson said just the same 
thing to me.” 

“How very odd,” said Brogten, affectedly. “ You 
didn't see the papers beforehand, Kennedy — did you?” 

The last few moments had been torture to Ken- 
nedy ; he had moved uneasily ; the bright look of grat- 
ified triumph which the allusions to his courage had 


JULIAN HOME. 


185 


called forth had gone out the moment the examination 
was mentioned, and it was only by a painful and 
violent exercise of the will that he was able to keep 
back the blood which had begun to rush towards his 
cheeks. In the endeavor to check or suppress the 
blush he had grown ashy pale ; but now that Brogten’s 
dark and cruel eye was upon him — now that the pro- 
truding underlip curled with a sneer that left no more 
room to doubt that he was master of Kennedy’s guilty 
secret — the effort was useless, and spite of will, the 
burning crimson of an uncontrollable shame burst and 
flashed over Kennedy’s usually clear and open face. 
It was no ordinary blush — no common passage of color 
over the cheeks. Over face, and neck and brow the 
guilty blood seemed to be crowding tumultuously, 
and when it had filled every vain and fibre till it 
swelled, then the rich scarlet seemed to linger there 
as though it would never die away again, and if for an 
instant it began to fade, then the hidden thought sent 
new waves of hot agony in fresh pulses to supply its 
place. And all the while the conscious victim made 
matters worse by his attempts to seem unconcerned, 
until his forehead was wet with heavy perspiration. 
By that time the men had turned to other topics, and 
were talking about Bruce’s laziness, and the utter 
manner in which he must have fallen off for his name 
to appear, as it had done, in the second class ; and, in 
course of time, Kennedy’s face was as pale and cold as 
it before had burned and glowed. 

And all this while, though he would not look — 
though he looked at his plate, and at the busts over his 
head, and the long portraits of St. Werner’s worthies 
on the walls, and on this side and on that — Kennedy 
knew full well that Brogten’s eye had been on him 
from beginning to end, and that Brogten was enjoy- 
ing, with devilish malignity, the sense of power which 
he had gained from the knowledge of another’s sin. 
The thought was intolerable to him, and finishing his 
dinner with hasty gulps, he left the hall. 

“Brogten, how rude you were to Kennedy,” said 
Lilly s ton. 


186 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ Was I ? ” said Brogten, in a tone of sarcasm and 
defiance. 

“No wonder he blushed at your coarse insinuations.” 

“No wonder,” said Brogten, in the same tone; “am 
I the only person who makes coarse insinuations, as 
you call them ? ” 

“It is just like you to do so.” 

“Is it? Oh, well, I shall have to make some more, 
perhaps, before I have done.” 

“ Well, you’d better look out what you say to Ken- 
nedy, at any rate. He is a fiery subject.” 

“ Thank you, I will.” 

This wrangling was very unprofitable, and Lillyston 
gladly dropped it, not however without feeling some- 
what puzzled at the air which Brogten assumed. 

That night Kennedy was sitting miserably in his 
room alone; he had refused all invitations, and had 
asked nobody to take tea with him. He was just 
making tea for himself when Brogten came to see him. 

“ May I stay to tea ? ” he asked in mock humility. 

“ If you like,” said Kennedy. 

He stayed to tea, and talked about all kinds of sub- 
jects rather than the one which was prominent in the 
thoughts of both. He told Kennedy old Harton stories, 
and asked him about his school-days ; he turned the 
subject to Home, and really interested Kennedy by tell- 
ing him what kind of ahoy Julian had been, and what 
inseparable friends he had always been with Lillyston, 
and how admirably he had recited on speech-day, and 
how stainless his whole life had been, and how vice 
and temptation seemed to skulk away at his very look. 

“You are reconciled to him, then,” said Kennedy in 
surprise. 

“Oh, yes. At heart I always respected him. He 
wasn’t a fellow to take the worst view of one’s char- 
acter, you know, or to make nasty innuendoes ” He 

stopped and eyed Kennedy as a parrot eyes a finger 
put into his cage which he could peck if he would. 
“He wasn’t, you know, a kind of fellow who would 
force you to leave the table by sneering at you in 
hall ” He still continued to eye Kennedy, but 


JULIAN HOME. 


187 


in vain, for Kennedy kept his moody glance on the 
table and was silent, and would not look at him or 
speak to him. Brogten could not help being struck 
with his appearance as he sat there motionless, — the 
noble and perfectly-formed head, the well-cut features, 
the cheek, a little pale now, so boyishly smooth and 
round, the latent powers of fire and sarcasm and 
strength in the eye and lip. It was a base source of 
triumph that made Brogten exult in the knowledge 
that this youth was in his power ; that he held for a 
time at least the strings of his happiness or misery ; 
that at any time by a word in any public place he could 
bring on his fine features that hue of shame ; that for 
his own purposes he could at any time ruin his reputa- 
tion, and put an end to his popularity. 

Not that he intended to do so. He had the power, 
but unless provoked, he did not wish or mean to use 
it. It was far more luxurious to keep it to himself 
and use it as occasion might serve. Everybody’s secret 
is nobody’s secret, and it was enough for Brogten to 
enjoy privately the triumph he had longed for, and 
which accident had put into his hands. 

“ Come, come, Kennedy,” he said, “ this is nonsense; 
we understand each other. I saw you coolly read 
over the whole examination-paper, you know, which 
wasn’t the most honorable thing in the world to 
do ” 

He paused and half-relented as he saw a solitary 
tear on Kennedy’s cheek, which was indignantly 
brushed away almost as soon as it had started. 

“Come,” he said, “cheer up, man. I’m not going 
to tell of you; neither Grayson nor any of the men 
shall know it, and at present not a soul has a suspicion 
of such a thing except ourselves. Come — I’ve had my 
triumph over you for your sharp words in hall last 
term before all the men, and that’s all I wanted. 
Don’t let’s be enemies any longer. Good-night.” 

But Kennedy sat there passively, and when Brogten 
had gone away whistling “The Rat-catcher’s Daugh- 
ter,” he leant his head upon his hand, and his thoughts 
wandered away to Yiolet Home. 


188 


JULIAN -HOME. 


Oh holy, ennobling, purifying love! He felt that 
if he had known Violet before he should not now have 
been in Brogten’s power. He fancied that the secret 
had oozed out ; he fancied that men e} T ed him some- 
times with strange glances; he pictured to himself the 
degradation he should feel if Julian, or De Vayne, or 
Lillyston ever knew of what weakness he was capable. 
This one error rode like a nightmare on his breast. 

But none of his gloomy presentiments on the score 
of detection were fulfilled. Except to Bruce, and that 
under pledge of secrecy, Brogten never betrayed what 
he knew, and the only immediate way in which he 
exercised the influence which his knowledge gave him 
was by claiming with Kennedy a tone of familiarity, 
and asking him to card-parties, suppers, and idle riots 
of all kinds, in which Bruce and Fitzurse were fre- 
quent visitors. 




CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH. 

BRUCE THE TEMPTER. 

Oui autrefois ; mais nous avons change tout cela.” 

Moliere. 

Bruce was disgusted with his second class in the 
St. Werner’s May examination. He had quite flattered 
himself that he could not fail to be among the some- 
what large number who annually obtained the pleasant 
and easy distinction of a first. He had not been nearly 
so idle as men supposed, although he had managed to 
waste a large amount of time ; and if he could have 
foreseen that his name would only appear in the second 
class, he would have endeavored to be lower still, so as 
to make it appear that he had not condescended to give 
a thought to the subject. As it was, he hoped that if he 
got a first, men would remark, “ Clever fellow that 
Bruce ! never opened a book, and yet got a first class ; ” 
whereas now he knew that the general judgment would 
be, “ Bruce can’t be half such a swell as one fancied. 
He’s only taken a second.” 

His vanity was wounded, and he determined to throw 
up reading altogether. “ What good would it do him 
to grind ? His father was rolling in money, and of 
course he should cut a very good figure in London 
when lie had left Cam ford, which was a mere place for 
crammers and crammed, etc.” 

So Bruce became more and more confirmed as a 
trifler and an idler, and he suffered that terrible ennui 
which dogs the shadow of wasted time. Associating 
habitually with men who were his inferiors in ability, 
and whose tastes were lower than his own, the vacuity 

189 



190 


JULIAN HOME. 


of mind and lassitude of body which at times crept 
over him were the natural assistants of every tempta- 
tion to extravagance, frivolity, and sin. 

An accidental conversation gave a mischievous turn 
to his idle propensities. Coming into hall one evening, 
he found himself seated next to Suton, and observing 
from the goose on the table, and the audit ale which 
was circling in the loving-cup, that it was a feast, he 
turned to his neighbor, and asked, 

“Is it a saint’s day to-day?” 

“Yes,” said Suton, “and the most memorable of 
them all — All Saints’ Day.” 

“Oh, really,” said Bruce with an expression of half- 
contemptuous interest, “ then I suppose chapel’s at a 
quarter-past six, and we shall have one of those long- 
winded choral services.” 

“Don’t you like them?” 

“Like them? I should think not! Since one’s 
forced to do a certain amount of chapels, the shorter 
they are the better.” 

“Of course, if you regard it in the light of ‘doing’ 
so many chapels, you won’t find it pleasant.” 

“Do you mean to tell me now,” said Bruce, turning 
round and looking full at Suton, “that you regard 
chapel as anything but an unmitigated nuisance ? ” 

“ Most certainly I do mean to tell you so, if you ask 
me.” 

“ Ah ! I see— a Sim ! ” said Bruce, with the slight- 
est possible shrug of the shoulders. 

“ I don’t know what you mean by c a Sim,’ Mr. 
Bruce,” said Suton, slightly coloring ; “ but whether 
a Sim or not, I at least expect to be treated as a gen- 
tleman.” 

“ O, I beg pardon,” said Bruce ; “ but I couldn’t help 
recognizing the usual style of ” 

“Of cant, I suppose you would say. Thank you. 
You must find it a cold faith to disbelieve in all sin- 
cerity.” 

“Well, I don’t know. At any rate, I don’t believe 
that all your saints put together were really a bit 
better than their neighbors ; so I can’t get up an 


JULIAN HOME. 


191 


annual enthusiasm in their honor. All men are really 
alike at the bottom.” 

“ Nero’s belief,” said Owen, who hacl overheard the 
conversation. 

“ It doesn’t matter whether it was Nero’s or whose 
it was,” answered Bruce ; “ experience proves it to be 
true.” 

Suton had finished dinner, and as he did not relish 
Bruce’s off-hand and patronizing manner, he left the 
discussion in Owen’s hand. But between Owen and 
Bruce there was an implacable dissimilarity, and 
neither of them cared to pursue the subject. 

Bruce, who went to wine with D’Acres, repeated 
there the subject of the conversation, and found that 
most of his audience affected to agree with him. In 
fact, he had himself set the fashion of a semi-professed 
infidelity ; and amid his most intimate associates there 
were many to adopt with readiness a theory which 
saved them from the trouble and expense of a scrupu- 
lous conscience. With Bruce this infidelity was rather 
the decay of faith than the growth of positive disbelief. 
He had dipped with a kind of wilful curiosity into 
Strauss’s Life of Jesus and other books of a similar 
description, together with such portions of current 
literature as were most clever in sneering at Chris- 
tianity, or most undisguised in rejecting it. 

Such reading — harmless, or even desirable, as it 
might have been to a strong mind sincere in its search 
for truth, and furnished with that calm capacity for 
impartial thought which is the best antidote against 
error — was fatal to one whose superficial knowledge 
and irregular life gave him already a powerful bias 
towards getting rid of everything which stood in the 
way of his tendencies and pursuits. Bruce was not 
in earnest in the desire for knowledge and wisdom: 
he grasped with avidity at a popular objection or a 
sceptical argument, without desiring to understand or 
master the principles which rendered them nugatory ; 
and he was ignorant and untaught enough to fancy 
that the very foundations of religion were shaken if 
he could attack the authenticity of some Jewish 


192 


JULIAN HOME. 


miracle, or impugn the genuineness of some Old Testa- 
ment book. 

When all belief was broken down in his shallow and 
somewhat feeble understanding, the structure of his 
moral convictions was but a baseless fabric. Error 
in itself is not fatal to the inner sense of right; but 
Bruce’s error was not honest doubt, it was wilful self- 
deception, blindness of heart, first deliberately induced, 
then penally permitted. 

In Bruce’s character there was not only the error in 
intellectu, but also the pertinacia in volimtate. All 
sense of honor, all delicacy of principle, all perception 
of sin and righteousness, all the landmarks of right 
and wrong, were obliterated in the muddy inundation 
of flippant irreverence and ignorant disbelief. 

“ For when we in our viciousness grow hard, 

O’ misery on ’t ! the wise gods seal our eyes : 

In our own filth drop our clear judgments, make us 
Adore our errors, laugh at us while we strut 
To our confusion.” 

“ I’m sometimes half-inclined to agree with what 
you were saying about would-be saints,” said Brogten, 
as they left D’ Acres’ wine-party. 

“ What fun it would be to try the experiment of a 
saint’s peccability on some living subject,” said Bruce. 

“ Rather. Suppose you try on that fellow Hazlet.” 

“O, you mean the lank party who snuffles the re- 
sponses with such oleaginous sanctimony. Well, I 
bet you 2 to 1 in ponies that I have him roaring drunk 
before a. month’s over.” 

“I won’t take the bet,” said Brogten, “because I 
believe you’ll succeed.” 

“I’ll t-t-take it for the fun,” said Fitzurse. 

“Done, then,” said Bruce. 

So Bruce, pour passer le temps, deliberately under- 
took the corruption of a human soul. That soul might 
have been low enough already ; for Hazlet was, as we 
have seen, mean-hearted and malicious, and in him, 
although unknown to himself, the garb of the Pharisee 
but concealed the breast of the hypocrite. But yet 


JULIAN HOME. 


193 


Hazlet vms free, and if Bruce had not undertaken the 
devil’s work, might have been free to his life’s end, 
from all gross forms of transgression — from all the 
more flagrant and open delinquencies that lay waste 
the inner sanctities of a fallen human soul. 

He was an easy subject for Bruce’s machinations, and 
those machinations were conceived and carried on with 
consummate and, characteristic cleverness. Bruce did 
not spread his net in the sight of the bird, but set to 
work with wariness and caution. He determined to try 
the arts of fascination, not of force. The thought of the 
desperate wickedness involved in his attempt either 
never crossed his mind, or, if it did, was rejected as the 
feeble suggestion of an over-scrupulous conscience. 
Bruce pretended at least to fancy that the basis of all 
men’s characters was identical, and that, as they only 
differed in external manifestations, it made very little 
difference whether Hazlet became “fast” or con- 
tinued “ slow.” “ Fast ” and “ slow ” were the mild 
euphemisms with which Bruce expressed the slight 
distinction between a vicious and a virtuous life. 

At hall — the grand place for rencontres — he man- 
aged to get a seat next to his victim, and began at 
once to treat him with that appearance of easy and 
well-bred familiarity which he had learned in London 
circles. He threw a gentle expression of interest into 
his face and voice, he listened with deference to Ilaz- 
let’s remarks, he addressed several questions to him, 
thanked him politely for all his information, and then 
adroitly introduced some delicate compliments on the 
agreeableness of Hazlet’s society. His bait took com- 
pletely : Hazlet, whom most men snubbed, was quite 
flustered with gratified vanity at the condescending no- 
tice of so unexceptionable a man of fashion as the hand- 
some and noted Vyvyan Bruce. “ At last,” thought 
Hazlet, “ men are beginning to appreciate my intel- 
lectual powers.” 

After continuing this process for some days, until 
Hazlet was unalterably convinced that he must be a 
vastly agreeable and attractive person, Bruce asked him 
to come to breakfast, and invited Brogten and Fitzurse 
*3 


194 


JULIAN HOME. 


to meet him. He calculated justly that Hazlet, ac- 
customed only to the very quiet neighborhood of a 
country village, would be duly impressed with the 
presence and acquaintance of a live lord; and he in- 
structed both his guests in the manner in which they 
should treat the subject of their experiment. Ilazlet 
thought he had never enjoyed a breakfast-party so 
much. There was a delicious spice of worldliness in 
the topics of conversation which was quite refreshing 
to him, accustomed as he was to the somewhat dron- 
ing moralisms of his “ congenial friends.” Nothing 
which could deeply shock his prejudices was ever al- 
luded to, but the discussions which were introduced 
came to him with all the charm of novelty and awak- 
ened curiosity. 

Hazlet never could endure being a silent or inactive 
listener while a conversation was going forward. No 
matter how complete his ignorance of the subject, he 
generally managed to hazard some remarks. Bruce 
talked a good deal about actors and theatres, and Haz- 
let had never seen a theatre in his life. He did not 
like, however, to confess this fact, and after a little 
hesitation, began to talk as if he were an habitue. The 
dramatic criticisms which he occasionally saw in the 
papers furnished him with just materials enough to 
amuse Bruce and the others at his assumption of 
“savoir vivre,” and to furnish a laugh at his expense 
the moment he was gone ; but of this he was bliss- 
fully unconscious, and he rather plumed himself on his 
knowledge of the world. He had yet to learn the 
lesson that consistency alone can secure respect. He 
had indeed ventured at first to remark, “ Don’t you 
think the stage a little— just a little — objectionable ? ” 

“ Objectionable ! ” said Bruce, with a bland smile ; 
“oh, my dear fellow, what can you mean? Why, the 
stage is a mirror of the world, and to show virtue her 
own image is one of its main objects.” 

“Yes,” said Hazlet, “I am inclined to think so. I 
should like to see a theatre, I confess.” 

He had let slip unintentionally the implied admis» 
eion that he had never been to a theatre ; but when 


JULIAN HOME. 


195 


Fitzurse asked in astonishment, “What! have you 
never been to a theatre?” he merely replied, “ Well, 
I can hardly say I have ; at least not for a long time.” 

“Oh then we must all run down to London some 
night very soon,” said Bruce, “ and we’ll go together 
to the Regent.” 

“But I’ve no friend in London, except — except a 
clergyman or two, who perhaps might object, you 
know.” 

“Oh never mind the clergymen,” said Bruce; “you 
shall all come and stay with me at Vyvyan House.” 

Here was a triumph ! to go to the celebrated Vyvyan 
House, and that in company with a lord, and to be a 
partaker of Bruce’s hospitality ! Of course it would 
be very rude and wrong to refuse so eligible an invita- 
tion. How pleasant it would be to remark casually at 
hall-time, “ I’m just going to run down for the Sunday 
to Vyvyan House with Bruce and Lord Fitzurse! ” 

“ Let me see,” said Bruce, “ to-day’s Monday ; sup- 
posing you come to wine with me on Thursday, and 
then we’ll see if we can’t manage to get to London 
from Saturday to Monday.” 

“Thursday — I’m afraid I’ve an engagement on 
Thursday to ” 

“ To what ?” said Bruce. 

The more Hazlet colored and hung back, the more 
Bruce, in his agreeable way, pressed to know, till at 
last Ilazlet, unable to escape such genial importunity, 
reluctantly confessed that it was to a prayer-meeting 
in a friend’s rooms. 

“ Oh,” said Bruce, with the least little laugh, “ tea 
and hassocks, eh ? ” He said no more, but the little 
scornful laugh and the few scornful words had done 
their work more effectually than a volume of ridicule. 
It need not be added that Hazlet came, not to the 
prayer-meeting, but to the wine party. Cards were 
introduced in the evening, and one of the players was 
Kennedy. Kennedy played often now, but he cer- 
tainly did feel a qualm of intense and irrepressible dis- 
gust as, with great surprise, he found himself vis d vis 
with the spectacled visage of Jedediah Ilazlet. 


196 


JULIAN ROME. 


“ But liow shall I get my exeat to go to London ? ” 
said llazlet. 

“ Oh, say a particular friend has invited you to spend 
the Sunday with him. Say you want to hear Starfish 
preach. 5 ' 

Mr. Norton, Hazlet’s tutor, who did not expect him 
to fall into mischief, and thought that very likely Mr. 
Starfish’s eloquence might be the operating attraction, 
granted him the exeat without any difficulty, and on 
Saturday llazlet was reclining in a first-class carriage, 
with Bruce, Brogten, and Fitzurse, on his way to 
Yy vyan House. A change was observable in his dress. 
Bruce had hinted to him that his usual garb might 
look a little formal and odd at a theatre, and had per- 
suaded him to come to his own egregious Camford 
tailor, Mr. Fitfop, who, as a particular favor to his 
customer Bruce, produced with suspicious celerity the 
cut-away coat and mauve-colored pegtops, in which un- 
wonted splendor Hazlet was now arrayed. It was a 
pity that his ears were so obturated with vanity as 
not to have heard the shrieks of half-stifled laughter 
created by his first public appearance in this fashion- 
able guise, which only required to be completed by the 
death’s-head pin with which Bruce presented him 
(and which therefore he was obliged to wear) to make 
it perfect. 

The sumptuous and voluptuous richness of all the 
appointments in Vyvyan House introduced Hazlet to 
a new world. Sir Rollo and Lady Bruce were not in 
town, so that the four young men had the house en- 
tirely to themselves, and Bruce ordered about the 
servants with royal energy. Soon after their arrival 
they sat down to a choice dinner, and Bruce took care, 
although the champagne had been abundant at dinner, 
to pass pretty freely, at dessert, the best claret and 
amontillado of his father’s cellars. Hazlet was not 
slow to follow the example which the others set him ; 
he helped himself plentifully to everything, and after 
dinner, lolling in an easy attitude, copied from Fitzurse, 
he even ventured to exhibit his very recently-acquired 
accomplishment of smoking a weed. Very soon he 


JULIAN HOME. 


197 

imagined that he had quite made an impression on the 
most fashionable members of the St. Werner’s world. 

They went to the Regent, and between the acts, 
Bruce, who knew everything, introduced them behind 
the scenes. Ilazlet, rather amazed at his own bold- 
ness, but in reality entirely ignorant which way to 
turn, necessarily followed liis guides, and, exultant 
with the influence of mellow wine, imitated the others, 
and tried to look and feel at home. Within a month 
of Bruce’s manipulation, this excellent and gifted 
young man, this truly gracious light in the youthful 
band of confessors, was seated, talking to a fascinat- 
ing young danseuse who wore a gossamer dress, behind 
the scenes of a petty London theatre. Bruce looked 
on with a smile, and hummed to himself — 

Jene Tanzerinn 
Fliegt, mit leichtem Sinn 
Und noch leichtern Kleide 
Durch den Saal der Freude 
Wie ein Zephyr bin, etc. 

The head of Jedediah Ilazlet was somewhat con- 
fused when, after the play and a supper, it sank deep 
into the reposeful down of a spare chamber in the gay 
Sir Rollo Bruce’s London house. 

The next morning was Sunday. They none of them 
got up till twelve to a languid breakfast, and then read 
novels. Ilazlet, who was rather shocked at this, did 
indeed faintly suggest going to church. “ Oh yes,” 
said Bruce, looking up with a smile from his Balzac, 
“ we’ll do that, or some other equally harmless amuse- 
ment.” The dinner hour, however, coincided with the 
time of evening service, so that it was impossible to 
go then, and finally they spent the evening in what 
they all agreed to call “a perfectly quiet game at 
cards.” 



CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. 

ONE OF THE SIMPLE ONES. 

Oi)To$xav el$ / j ia%aipas xufiiaTTjaets xav nup aXXono. 

Xen. Mem. I. 3. 


“ I tempted his blood and his flesh, 

Hid in roses my mesh, 

Choicest cates, and the flagon's best spilth.” 

Robert Browning. 

“ Faugh,” said Bruce, on his return to Caraford, “ that 
fellow Hazlet isn’t worth making an experiment upon 
— in corpora vili truly ; but the creature is so wicked 
at heart, that even his cherished traditions crumble at 
a touch. He’s no game ; he doesn’t even run cunning.” 

“Then I hope you’ll p-p-pay me my p-p-p-ponies,” 
said Fitzurse. 

“By no means; only I shall cut things short; he 
isn’t worth playing; I shall haul him in at once.” 

Accordingly, Hazlet was invited once more to one 
of Bruce’s parties — this time to a supper. It was one 
of the regular, reckless, uproarious affairs — D’Acres, 
Boodle Tulk, Brogten, Fitzurse, were all there, and 
the elite of the fast fellow-commoners and sporting 
men besides. Bruce had privately entreated them all 
not to snub Hazlet, as he wanted to have some fun. 
The supper was soon despatched, and the wine circled 
plentifully. It was followed by a game of cards, dur- 
ing which the punch-bowl stood in the centre of the 
table, rich, smoking, and crowned with a concoction 
of unprecedented strength. Hazlet was o 1 uite in his 
glory. When they had plied him sufficiently — which 
Bruce took care to do by repeatedly replenishing his 



JULIAN HOME. 


199 


cup on the sly, so that he might fancy himself to have 
taken much less than was really the case — they all 
drank his health with the usual honors : — 

“ For he’s a jolly good f e-el-low, 

For he’s a jolly good fe-el-low, 

For he’s a jolly good fe-el-lo-ow — 

Which nobody can deny, 

Which nobody can deny ; 

For he’s a jolly good fe-el-low,” etc. 

And so on, ad infinitum , followed by “ Ilip ! hip ! hip ! 
hurrah! hurrah!! hurrah!!!” and then the general 
rattling of plates on the table, and breaking of wine- 
glass stems with knives of “ boys who crashed the 
glass and beat the floor.” 

Ilazlet was quite in the seventh heaven of exalta- 
tion, and made a feeble attempt at replying to the 
honor in a speech ; but he was in so very oblivious and 
generally foolish a condition, that, being chiefly ac- 
customed to Philadelphus oratory, he began to address 
them as “My Christian Friends;” and this produced 
such shouts of boisterous laughter that he sat down 
with his purpose unaccomplished. 

Before the evening was over, Bruce in the opinion of 
all present, including Fitzurse himself, had fairly won 
his bet. 

“I shan’t mind p-p-paying a bit,” said the excellent 
young nobleman ; “it’s been such r-r-rare f-f-fun.” 

Rare fun indeed ! The miserable Hazlet, swilled 
with unwonted draughts, lay brutally comatose in a 
chair. Ilis head rolled from side to side, his body and 
arms hung helpless and disjointed, his eyelids drooped 
— he was completely unconscious, and more than ful- 
filled the conditions of being “roaring drunk!” 

Now for some jolly amusement — the opportunity’s 
too good to be lost ! What exhilaration there is on 
seeing a human soul imbruted and grovelling hope- 
lessly in the dirt ! or rather to have a body before you, 
without a soul for the time being— a coarse animal 
mass, swinish as those whom the wand of Circe smote, 
but with the human intelligence quenched besides, and 


200 


JULIAN HOME. 


the character of reason wiped away. Here, some ochre 
and lampblack, quick ! There — plaster it well about 
the whiskers and eyelids, and put a few patches on the 
hair ! Magnificent ! — he looks like a Choctaw in his 
war-paint, after drinking fire-water. 

Screams of irrepressible laughter — almost as ghastly 
(if the cause of them be considered) as those that might 
have sounded round a witch’s cauldron over diabolical 
orgies — accompanied the whole proceeding. So loud 
were they that all the men on the staircase heard 
them, and fully expected the immediate apparition of 
some bulldog, dean, or proctor. It was nobody’s affair, 
however, but Bruce’s, and he must do as lie liked. 
Suton, who “kept” near Bruce, was one of those 
whom the uproar puzzled and disturbed, as he sat 
down with sober pleasure to his evening’s work. His 
window was opposite Bruce’s and across the narrow 
road he heard distinctly most of what was said. The 
perpetual and noisy repetition of Hazlet’s name per- 
plexed him extremely, and at last he could have no 
doubt that they were making Ilazlet drunk, and then 
painting him ; nor was it less clear that many of them 
were themselves half-intoxicated. 

It had of course been impossible for Suton and 
others of similar character to avoid noticing the eccen- 
tricities of dress and manner which had been the out- 
ward indications of Ilazlet’s recent course. When a 
man who has been accustomed to dress in black, and 
wear tail-coats in the morning, suddenly comes out in 
gorgeous apparel, and begins to talk about cards, bet- 
ting, and theatres, his associates must be very blind if 
they do not observe that his theories are undergoing 
a tolerably complete revolution. Suton saw with 
regret, mingled with pity, Hazlet’s contemptible weak- 
ness, and he had once or twice endeavored to give him 
a hint of the ridicule which his metamorphosis occa- 
sioned; but Ilazlet had met his remarks with such 
silly arrogance, nay, with such a patronizing assump- 
tion of superiority, that he determined to leave him 
to his own experiences. This did not prevent Suton 
from feeling a strong and righteous indignation against 


JULIAN HOME. 


201 


the iniquity of those who were inveigling another to 
his ruin, and he felt convinced that, as at this moment 
Hazlet was being unfairly treated, it was his duty in 
some way to interfere. 

He got up quietly, and walked over to Bruce’s rooms. 
His knock produced instant silence, followed by a 
general scuffle as the men endeavored to conceal the 
worst signs of their recent outrage. When Suton 
opened the door, he was greeted with a groan of de- 
rision. 

“Confound you,” said Bruce, “ I thought it must be 
the senior proctor at the very least.” 

Without noticing his remark, Suton quietly said, 
“ I see, Bruce, that you have been treating Hazlet in 
a very unwarrantable way; he is clearly not in a fit 
condition to be trifled with any more ; you must help 
me to take him home.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! rather a good joke. I shall merely shove 
him into the street, if I do anything. What business 
has he to make a beast of himself in my rooms?” 

“What business have you to do the devil’s work, 
and tempt others to sin? You will have a terrible 
reckoning for it, even if no dangerous consequences 
ensue,” said Suton sternly. 

“ C-c-c-cant ! ” said Fitzurse. 

“ Yes — what you call cant, Fitzurse. Men of your 
school generally apply that name to the indignation 
which honest men feel towards brutality and vice,” 
replied Suton, turning towards him. “But whether it 
be cant or no, you have reason to be heartily ashamed 
of yourselves, and I insist on your helping me to take 
Hazlet to his rooms.” 

“ Bruce,” said D’ Acres, the least flushed of the party, 
“I really think we ought to take the fellow home. 
Just look at him.” 

Bruce looked, and was really alarmed at the grotesque 
yet ghastly expression of that striped and sodden face, 
with the straight black hair, and the head lolling and 
rolling on the shoulder. Without a word, he took 
Hazlet by one arm, while Suton held the other, and 
D’ Acres carried the legs, and as quickly as they could 


202 


JULIAN HOME. 


they hurried along with their lifeless burden to the 
gates of St. Werner’s. It was long past the usual 
hour for locking up, and the porter took down the 
names of all four as they entered. A large bribe which 
D’Acres offered was firmly yet respectfully refused, 
and they knew that next day they would be called to 
account. 

Having put Hazlet to bed they separated; Suton 
bade the others a stiff “ Good-night ; ” and D’Acres, as 
he left Bruce, said, “ Bruce, we have been doing a very 
blackguard thing.” 

“ Speak for yourself,” said Bruce. 

“ Good,” said D’Acres, “ and allow me to add that I 
have entered your rooms for the last time.” 

Next morning Suton spoke privately to the porter, 
and told him that it would be best for many reasons not 
to report what had taken place the night before, beyond 
the bare fact of their having come into college late at 
night. The man knew Suton thoroughly and respected 
him ; he knew him to be a man of genuine piety and 
the most regular habits, and consented, though not 
without difficulty, to omit all mention of Hazlet’s state. 
All four had of course to pay the usual gate fine, and 
D’Acres and Bruce were besides “admonished” by 
the senior Dean, but Suton and Hazlet were not even 
sent for. The Dean knew Suton well, and felt that his 
character was a sufficient guarantee that he had not 
been in any mischief ; Hazlet had been irregular lately, 
but the Dean considered him a very steady man, and 
overlooked for the present this breach of rules. 

Of course all St. Werner’s laughed over the story of 
Hazlet’s escapade. He did not know how to avoid the 
storm of ridicule which his folly had stirred up. He 
had already begun to drop his “ congenial friends ” for 
the more brilliant society to which Bruce had intro- 
duced him, and so far from admitting that he felt any 
compunction, he professed to regard the whole matter 
merely as an “ amusing lark.” Bruce and the others 
hardly condescended to apologize, and at first Hazlet, 
who found it impossible at once to remove all traces of 
the paint, and who for a day or two felt thoroughly un- 


JULIAN HOME. 


203 


well, made a half-resolve to resent their coolness. But 
now, deserted by his former associates, and laughed at 
by the majority of men, he found the society of his 
tempters indispensable for his comfort, and even cringed 
to them for the notice which at first they felt inclined 
to withdraw. 

“Wasn’t that trick on Hazlet a disgraceful affair, 
Kennedy ? ” said Julian, a few days after. “ Some one 
told me you were at the supper party ? surely it can’t 
be true.” 

“ I was for about an hour,” said Kennedy blushing, 
“ but I had left before this took place.” 

“ May I say it, Kennedy ! — a friend’s, a brother's 
privilege, you know — but it surprises me that you care 
to tolerate such company as that.” 

“Believe me, Julian, I don’t enjoy it.” 

“ Then why do you frequent it ? ” 

Kennedy sighed deeply and was silent for a time; 
then he said : — 

“ Not e’en the dearest heart, and next onr own, 

Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh.” 

“True,” said Julian ; for he had long observed that 
some heavy weight lay on Kennedy’s mind, and with 
deep sorrow noticed that their intercourse was less 
cordial, less frequent, less intimate than before. Not 
that he loved Kennedy, or that Kennedy loved him less 
than of old, for, on the contrary, Kennedy yearned 
more than ever for the full cherished unreserve of their 
old friendship; but alas! there was not, there could 
not be complete confidence between them, and where 
there is not confidence, the pleasure of friendship grows 
dim and pale. And, besides this, new tastes were grow- 
ing up in Edward Kennedy, and by slow and fatal 
degrees were developing into passions. 

ITazlet had come to Camford not so much innocent 
as ignorant. lie had never learnt to restrain and con- 
trol the strong tendencies which, in the quiet shades 
of Ildown, had been sheltered from temptation. Un- 
like Suton, he had mistaken the language of a sect for 
the utterances of the heart, and was unconscious of 


204 


JULIAN HOME. 


the weak foundations on which his goodness rested. 
A few months before he would have heard with un- 
mitigated horror the delinquencies which he now com- 
mitted without a scruple, and defended without a blush. 
None are so precipitate in the career of sin and folly 
as back sliders ; none so unchecked in the downward 
course as those to whom the mystery of iniquity is 
suddenly displayed when they have had none of the 
gradual training whereby men are armed to resist its 
seductions. 

Who does not know from personal observation that 
the cycle of sins is bound together by a thousand in- 
visible filaments, and that myriads of unknown connec- 
tions unite them to one another? Hazlet, when he 
had once “ forsaken the guide of his youth, and forgot- 
ten the covenant of his God,” did not stop short at one 
or two temptations, and yield only to some favorite 
vice. With a rapidity as amazing as it was disastrous, 
he developed in the course of two or three months 
into one of the most shameless and dissipated of the 
worst St. Werner’s set. There was something charac- 
teristic in the way in which he frothed out his own 
shame, boasting of his infamous liberty with an arro- 
gance which resembled his former conceit in spiritual 
superiority. 

Julian, who now saw less of him than ever, had no 
opportunity of speaking to him as to his course of life ; 
but at last an incident happened which persuaded him 
that further silence would be a culpable neglect of his 
duty to his neighbor. 

Montagu, of Roslyn School, came up to Cam ford to 
spend a Sunday with Owen, and Owen asked Julian 
and Lillyston to meet him. They liked each other 
very much, and Julian rapidly began to regard Mon- 
tagu as a real friend. In order to see as much of each 
other as possible, they all agreed to take a four-oar on 
the Saturday morning, and row to Elnham ; at Elnham 
they dined, and spent two pleasant hours in visiting 
the beautiful cathedral, so that they did not get back 
to Camford till eleven at night. 

Their way from the boats to St. Werner’s lay through 


JULIAN HOME. 205 

a bacl part of the town, and they walked quickly, 
Owen and Montagu being a little way in front. 

A few gas-lights were burning at long intervals in 
the narrow lane through which they had to pass, and 
as they walked under one of them they observed a 
group of four standing half in shadow. One of them 
Julian instantly recognized as the very vilest of the 
St. Werner “fast men;” another was Hazlet; there 
could be no doubt as to the company in which he was. 

For one second Julian turned back to look in sheer 
astonishment, — he could hardly believe the testimony 
of his own eyes. The figure which he took to be 
Hazlet hastily retreated, and Julian half-persuaded 
himself that he was mistaken. 

“Did you see who that was?” asked Lillyston, 
sadly. 

“Yes,” said Julian; “one of the simple ones.” 

“You must speak to him, Julian.” 

“ I will.” 

As Hazlet was out when he called, Julian wrote on 
his card, “ Dear II., will you come to tea at 8? Yours 
ever, J. Home.” 

At 8 o’clock, accordingly, Hazlet was seated, as he 
had not been for a very long time, by Julian’s fireside. 
Julian’s conversation interested him, and he could not 
help feeling a little humbled at the unworthiness 
which prevented him from more frequently enjoying 
it. It was not till after tea, when they had pulled 
their chairs to the fire, that Julian said, “Hazlet, I was 
sorry to see you in bad company last night.” 

“ Me ! ” said Hazlet, feigning surprise. 

“ You ! ” 

Hazlet saw that all attempt at concealment was 
useless. “ For God’s sake don’t tell my mother, or 
any of the Ildown people,” he said, turning pale. 

“Is it likely I should? Yet my doing so would be 
the very least harm that could happen to you, Hazlet, if 
you adopt these courses. I had rather see you afraid 
of sin than of detection.” 

Hazlet stammered in self-defence one of the com- 
monplaces which he had heard but too often in the 


£06 


JULIAN HOME. 


society of those who “ put evil for good, and good for 
evil.” 

Julian very quietly tore the miserable sophism to 
shreds, and said, “ There is but one way to speak of 
these sins, Hazlet,— they are deadly, bitter, ruinous.” 

“ O, they are. very common. Lots of men ” 

“Tush!” said Julian; “their commonness, if in- 
deed it be so, does not diminish their deadliness. Not 
to put the question on the religious ground at all, I 
fully agree with Carlyle that on the mere consideration 
of expedience and physical fact, nothing can be more 
fatal, more calamitous than ‘ to burn away in mad 
waste the divine aromas and celestial elements from 
our existence ; to change our holy of holies into a 
place of riot ; to make the soul itself hard, impious, 
barren.’ ” 

Hazlet, ashamed and bewildered, confused his pres- 
ent position with old reminiscences, and muttered 
some balderdash about Carlyle “ not being sound.” 

“ Carlyle not sound ? ” said Julian ; “ good heavens ! 
you can still retain the wretched babblements of 
your sectarianism while your courses are what thev 
are ! ” 

He was inclined to drop the conversation in sheer 
disgust, but Hazlet’s pride was now aroused, and he 
began to bluster about the impertinence of inter- 
ference on Julian’s part, and his right to do what he 
chose. 

“ Certainly,” said Julian, sternly, “ the choice lies 
with yourself. Run, if you will, as a bird to the snare 
of the fowler, till a dart strike you through. But if 
you are dead and indifferent to your own miserable 
soul, think that in this sin you cannot sin alone ; think 
that you are dragging down to the nethermost abyss 
others besides yourself. Remember the wretched vic- 
tims of your infamous passions, and tremble while you 
desecrate and deface forever God’s image stamped on 
a fair human soul. Think of those whom your vile- 
ness dooms to a life of loathliness, a death of shame 
and anguish, perhaps an eternity of horrible despair. 
Learn something of the days they are forced to spend 


JULIAN HOME. 


207 


that they may pander to the worst instincts of your 
degraded nature ; days of squalor and drunkenness, 
disease and dirt ; gin at morning, noon, and night ; 
eating infection, horrible madness, and sudden death 
at the end. Can you ever hope for salvation and the 
light of God’s presence while the cry of the souls of 
which you have been the murderer — yes, do not dis- 
guise it, the murderer, the cruel, willing, pitiless mur- 
derer— is ringing upwards from the depths of hell?” 

“ What do you mean by the murderer ? ” said Hazlet, 
with an attempt at misconception. 

“ I mean this, Hazlet ; setting aside all considerations 
which affect your mere personal ruin — not mentioning 
the atrophy of spiritual life and the clinging sense of 
degradation which is involved in such a course as yours 
— I want you to see, if you will be honest, that the 
fault is yet more deadly, because you involve other souls 
and other lives in your own destruction. Is it not a 
reminiscence sufficient to kill any man’s hope, that but 
for his own brutality some who are now perhaps rot- 
ting in the lazarhouse or raving in the asylum might 
have been clasping their own children to their happy 
breasts, and wearing in unpolluted innocence the rose 
of matronly honor? Oh, Hazlet, I have heard you talk 
about missionary societies, and seen your name in sub- 
scription-lists, but believe me you could not, by myriads 
of such conventional charities, cancel the direct and 
awful quota which you are now contributing to the 
aggregate of the world’s misery and shame.” 

It took a great deal to abash a mind like Hazlet’s. 
He said that he was going to be a clergyman, and that 
it was necessary for him to see something of life, or he 
would never acquire the requisite experience. 

“ Loathly experience ! ” said Julian with crushing 
scorn. “ And do you ever hope, Hazlet, by centuries 
of preaching such as yours to repair one-millionth part 
of the damage done by your bad passions to a single 
fellow-creature? Such a hateful excuse is verily to 
carry the Urim with its oracular gems into the very 
sty of sensuality, and to debase your religion into ‘ a 
procuress to the lords of hell,’ I have done; but let 


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JULIAN HOME. 


me say, Hazlet, that your self- justification is, if possible, 
more repulsive than your sin.” 

He pushed back his chair from the fire, and turned 
away, as Hazlet, with some incoherent sentences about 
“ no business of his,” left the room and slammed the 
door behind him. 

What are words but weak motions of vibrating air? 
Julian’s words passed by the warped nature of Hazlet 
like the idle wind, and left no more trace upon him than 
the snow-flake when it has melted into the purpling 
sea. .As the weeks went on, his ill- regulated mind grew 
more and more free from the control of reason or man- 
linesss, and he sank downwards, downwards, down- 
wards into the most shameful abysses of an idle, and 
evil, and dissipated life. 

And the germ of that ruin was planted by the hand 
of the clever, and gay, and handsome Yyvyan Bruce. 




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. 
de vayne’s temptation. 

“And felt how awful goodness is, and virtue, 

In her own shape how lovely.” 

Milton’s Paradise Lost . 

Shall I confess it ? Pitiable and melancholy as was 
Hazlet’s course, men liked him so little as to feel for 
him far less than they otherwise should have done. 
His worst error never caused any one half the pain of 
Kennedy’s most venial fault. Must I then tell a sad 
tale of Kennedy too — my brave, bright, beautiful, light- 
hearted Kennedy, whom I always loved so well ? May 
I not throw over the story of his college days the rosy 
colorings of romance and fancy, the warm sunshine of 
prosperity and hope? I wish I might! But I am 
writing of Camford — not of a divine Utopia or a sunken 
Atalantis. 

Bruce, so far from being troubled by his own evil 
deed, was proud of a success which supported a pet 
theory of his infidel opinions. He made no sort of 
secret of it, and laughed openly at the fool whom he 
had selected for his victim. 

“ But after all,” said Brogten, who had plenty of 
common sense, “your triumph was very slight.” 

“ How do you mean ? I chose the most obtrusively 
religious man in St. Werner’s, and, in the course of a 
very short time, I had him, of his own will, roaring 
drunk.” 

“And what’s the inference?” 

“ That what men call religion is half-cant, half the 
accident of circumstances.” 

14 


209 



210 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ Pardon me, you’re out in your conclusion ; it only 
shows that Hazlet was a hypocrite, or at the best a 
weak, vain, ignorant fellow. The very obtrusiveness 
and uncharitableness of his religion proved its unreality. 
Now I could name dozens of men who would see you 
dead on the floor rather than do as you have taught 
Hazlet to do — men, in fact, with whom you simply 
daren't try the experiment.” 

“ Daren! t! why not?” 

“ Why, simply because they breathe such a higher 
and better atmosphere than either you or I, that you 
would be abashed by their mere presence.” 

“Poch! I don’t believe it,” said Bruce, with an 
uneasy laugh; “mention any such man.” 

“ Well, Suton for instance, or Lord De Vayne.” 

“Suton is an unpleasant fellow, and I shouldn’t 
choose to try him, because he’s a bore. But I bet you 
what you like that I make De Yayne drunk before a 
month’s over.” 

“ Done! I bet you twenty pounds you don’t.” 

Disgusting that the young, and pure-hearted, and 
amiable De Vayne should be made the butt of the 
machinations of such men as Bruce and Brogten ! But 
so it was. Things quite as painful and startling as 
this are not strange to the experience of many. I can 
conceive a man’s private wickedness, — the wickedness 
which he confines within his own heart, and only brings 
to bear upon others so far as is demanded by his own 
fancied interests; I can imagine, too, an open and will- 
ing partnership in villany where hand joins in hand, 
and face answereth to face. But that any knowing 
the plague of their own hearts should deliberately 
endeavor to lead others into sin, coolly and delib- 
erately, without even the blinding mist of passion to 
hide the path which they are treading, — this, if I had 
not known that it was so, I could not have conceived. 
The murderer who, atom by atom, continues the slow 
poisoning of a perishing body for many months, and 
dies amid the yell of a people’s execration, — in sober 
earnest, before God, I believe he is less guilty than he 
who ? drop by drop, pours into the soul of another the 


JULIAN HOME. 


211 


curdling venom of moral pollution ; than he who feeds 
into full-sized fury the dormant monsters of another’s 
evil heart. Surely the devil must welcome a human 
tempter with open arms ! 

Of course Bruce had to proceed with Lord De 
Yayne in a manner totally different from that which 
he had applied to Jedediah Hazlet. He felt himself 
that the task was far more difficult and delicate, es- 
pecially as it was by no means easy to get access to 
De Vayne’s company at all. Julian, Lillyston, Ken- 
nedy, and a few others, formed the circle of his only 
friends, and although he was constantly with them , he 
was rarely to be found in other society. But this was 
a difficulty which a man with so large an acquaintance 
as Bruce could easily surmount, and for the rest he 
trusted to the conviction which he had adopted, that 
there was no such thing as sincere godliness, and that 
men only differed in proportion to the weakness or 
intensity of the temptations which happened to assail 
them. 

So Bruce managed, without any apparent manoeuvr- 
ing, to see more of De Yayne at various men’s rooms, 
and he generally made a point of sitting next to him 
when he could. He had naturally a most insinuating 
address and a suppleness of manner which enabled 
him to adapt himself with facility to the tastes and 
temperaments of the men among whom he was thrown. 
There were few who could make themselves more 
pleasant and plausible when it suited them than 
Yyvyan Bruce. 

De Yayne soon got over the shrinking with which 
he had at first regarded him, and no longer shunned 
the acquaintance of which he seemed desirous. It was 
not until this stage that Bruce made any serious attempt 
to take some steps towards winning his wager. lie 
asked De Yayne to a dessert, and took care that the 
wines should be of an insidious strength. But the 
young nobleman’s abstemiousness wholly defeated and 
baffled him, as he rarely took more than a single 
glass. 

“ You pass the wine, De Yayne j don’t do that.” 


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JULIAN HOME. 


« Thank you, I’ve had enough.” 

“ Come, come ; allow me,” said Bruce, filling the 
glass for him. 

De Vayne drank it out of politeness, and Bruce re- 
peated the same process soon after. 

“Come, De Vayne, no heel-taps,” he said playfully, 
as he filled his glass for him. 

“ Thank you, I’d really rather not have any more.” 

“ Why, you must have been lending your ears to 

‘ Those budge doctors of the Stoic fur, 

Praising the lean and sallow abstinence ; * 

You take nothing. I shall abuse my wine merchant.” 

“ You certainly seem as anxious as Comus that I should 
drink, Bruce,” said De Vayne, smiling; “but really 
I mean that I wish for no more.” 

Bruce saw that he had overstepped the bounds of 
politeness, and also made a mistake by going a little 
too far. He pressed De Vayne no longer, and the con- 
versation passed to other subjects. 

“Anything in the papers to-day?” asked Brogten. 

“ Yes ; another case of wife-beating and wife-murder. 
What a dreadful increase of those crimes there has 
been lately,” said De Vayne. 

“ Another proof,” said Bruce, “ of the gross absurdity 
of the marriage-theory.” 

De Vayne opened his eyes wide in astonishment. 
Knowing very little of Bruce, he was not aware that 
this was a very favorite style of remark with him, — 
indeed, a not uncommon style with other clever young 
undergraduates. He delighted to startle men by some- 
thing new, and dazzle them with a semblance of in- 
sight and reasoning. “The gross absurdity of the 
marriage theory,” thought De Vayne to himself; “I 
wonder what on earth lie can mean ? ” Fancying he 
must have misheard, he said nothing ; but Bruce, dis- 
appointed that his remark had fallen flat (for the others 
were too much used to the kind of thing to take any 
notice of it), continued — 

“ How curious it is that the whole of the arguments 


JULIAN HOME. 


213 


should be against marriage, and yet that it should con- 
tinue to be an institution. You never find a person to 
defend it.” 

“‘At quis vituperavit?' as the man remarked, on 
hearing of a defence of Hercules,” said De Yayne. “I 
should have thought that marriage, like the Bible, 
‘needed no apology.’ ” 

“My dear fellow, it surely is an absurdity on the 
face of it ? See how badly it succeeds.” 

Without choosing to enter on that question, De 
Yayne quietly remarked, “ You ask why marriage ex- 
ists. Don’t you believe that it was originally appointed 
by divine providence, and afterwards sanctioned by 
divine lips ? ” 

“ Oh, if you come that kind of ground, you know, 
and abandon the aspect of the question from the side 
of pure reason, you’ve so many preliminaries to prove; 
e. (/., the genuineness and authenticity of the Penta- 
teuch and the Gospels ; the credibility of the narrators ; 
the possibility of their being deceived ; the ” 

“In fact,” said De Yayne, “ the evidences of Chris- 
tianity. Well, I trust that I have studied them, and 
that they satisfy alike my reason and my conscience.” 

“Ah, yes! Well, it’s no good entering on those 
questions, you know. I shouldn’t like to shock your 
convictions, as I should have to do if I discussed with 
you. It’s just as well after all — even in the nineteenth 
century — not to expose the exotic flower of men’s be- 
lief to the rude winds of fair criticism. Picciola ! it 
might be blighted, poor thing, which w’ould be a pity. 
Perhaps one does more harm than good by exposing 
antiquated errors.” And with a complacent shrug of 
the shoulders, and a slight smile of self-admiration, 
Bruce leant back in his arm-chair. 

This was Bruce’s usual way, and he found it the 
most successful. There were a great many minds on 
whom it created the impression of immense cleverness. 
“ That kind of thing, you know, it’s all exploded now,” 
he would say among the circle of his admirers, and he 
would give a little wave of the hand, which was vastly 
effective— as if he “ could an if he would ” puff away 


214 


JULIAN HOME. 


the whole system of Christianity with quite a little 
breath of objection, but refrained from such tyrannous 
use of a giant’s strength. “It’s all very well, you 
know, for persons — though, by the way, not half of the 
cleverest believe what they preach — but really for 
men of the world, and thinkers, and acute reasoners ” 
— (oh, how agreeable it was to the Tulks and Boodles 
to be included in such a category) — “ why, after such 
arguments as one has read lately in German literature, 
and even in the English authors who aren’t quite be- 
hind the age, one can’t be expected, you know, to be- 
lieve such a mass of traditionary rubbish.” (Bruce 
always professed acquaintance with German writers, 
and generally quoted the titles of their books in the 
original ; it sounded so much better ; not that he had 
read one of them, of course.) And they did think him 
so clever when he talked in this way. How wise he 
must be to know such profound truths ! 

But so far from Bruce’s hardly-concealed contempt 
for the things which Christians hold sacred producing 
any effect on Lord De Yayne, he regarded it with a 
silent pity. “I hate,” thought he, “when Vice can 
bolt her arguments, and Virtue has no tongue to check 
her pride.” The annoying impertinence, so frequent 
in discussion, which leads a man to speak as though, 
from the vantage-ground of great intellectual superi- 
ority to his opponent, the graceful affectation of drop- 
ping an argument out of respect for prejudices which 
the arguer despises, or an incapacity which the arguer 
implies — this merely personal consideration did not 
ruffle for a moment the gentle spirit of De Vayne. 
But that a young man — conceited, shallow, and igno- 
rant — should profess to settle with a word the contro- 
versies which had agitated the profoundest reasons, 
and to settle with a sneer the mysteries before which 
the mightiest thinkers had veiled their eyes in rever- 
ence and awe; that he should profess to set aside 
Christianity as a childish fable not worthy a wise 
man’s acceptance, and triumph over it as a defeated 
and deserted cause ; this indeed filled De Vayne’s mind 
with sorrow and disgust. So far from being impressed 


JULIAN HOME. 215 

or dazzled by Bruce’s would-be cleverness, he sincerely 
grieved over his impudence and folly. 

“Thank you, Bruce,” he said, after a slight pause, 
and with some dignity, “ thank you for your kind con- 
sideration of my mental inferiority, and for the pitying 
regard which you throw, from beside your nectar, on 
my delicate and trembling superstitions. But don’t 
think, Bruce, that I admit your — may I call it ? — im- 
pertinent assumption that all thinking men have 
thrown Christianity aside- as an exploded error. Some 
shadow of proof, some fragment of reason, would be 
more satisfactory treatment of a truth which has re- 
generated the world, than foolish assertion or insolent 
contempt. Good-night.” 

There was something in the manner of De Yayne’s 
reproof which effectually quelled Bruce, while it galled 
him ; yet, at the same time, it was delivered with such 
quiet good taste that to resent it was impossible. He 
saw, too, not without vexation, that it had told power- 
fully on that little knot of auditors. The wine-party 
soon broke up, for Bruce could neither give new life 
to the conversation nor recover his chagrin. 

“ So-lio ! ” said Brogten, when they were left alone, 
“ I shall win my bet.” 

“ D d if you shall,” said Bruce, with an oath of 

vexation. In fact, not only was he determined not to 
be foiled in proving his wisdom and power of reading 
men’s characters, but he was wholly unable to afford 
any payment of the bet. Bruce could get unlimited 
credit for goods, on the reputation of his father’s wealth, 
but money-dealers were very sharp-eyed people, and he 
found it much less easy to get his promissory-notes 
cashed. It was a matter of etiquette to pay at once 
“ debts of honor,” and his impetuous disposition led him 
to take bets so freely that his ready money was gener- 
ally drained away very soon after his return. Not long 
before, he had written to his father for a fresh supply, 
but, to his great surprise, the letter had only produced 
an angry and even indignant reproof. “ Vyvyan (his 
father had written— not even ‘dear Vyvyan ’), I allow 
you £500 a year, a sum totally out of proportioil with 


216 


JULIAN HOME. 


your wants, and yet you are so shamefully extravagant 
as to write without a blush to ask me for more. Don’t 
presume to do it again on pain of my heavy displeas- 
ure.” This letter had so amazed him that he did not 
even answer it, nor, in spite of his mother’s earnest, ur- 
gent, and almost heart-rending entreaties, post by post, 
would he even condescend to write home for many 
weeks. It was the natural result of the way in which 
at home they had pampered his vanity, and never 
checked his faults. 

But, for these reasons, it was wholly out of Bruce’s 
power to pay Brogten the bet if he failed in trying to 
shake the temperance of De Vayne. He saw at once 
that he had mistaken his subject ; he took De Vayne 
for a man whose goodness and humility would make 
him pliant to all designs. 

A dark thought entered Bruce’s mind. 

He went alone into a druggist’s shop and said, with 
a languid air, “I have been suffering very much from 
sleeplessness lately, Mr. Brent ; I want you to give me 
a little laudanum.” 

“ Very well, sir. You must be careful how you use 
it.” 

“ Oh, of course. How many drops would make one 
drowsy, now ? ” 

“ Four or five, sir, I should think.” 

“Well you must give me one of those little bottles 
full. I want to have some by me, to save trouble.” 

The chemist filled the bottle, and then said, “ I’m 
afraid I’m out of my poison labels, sir. I’ll just write 
a little ticket and tie it on.” 

“ All right ; ” and putting it in his pocket, Bruce 
strolled away. 

But how to see De Vayne again? He thought over 
their common acquaintances, and at last fixed on Ken- 
nedy as the likeliest man on whom he could depend 
to secure another meeting. Yet he hardly liked to 
suggest that Kennedy should give a wine party, and 
ask De Vayne and liimself; so that he was rather 
puzzled. 

“ I say, Brogten, how is it that we are always ask- 


JULIAN HOME. 217 

ing Kennedy to our rooms, and he so very seldom asks 
us?” 

“I suppose because he isn’t over-partial to our 
company.” 

“ Why not ? ” said Bruce, who considered himself very 
fascinating, and quite a person whose society was to be 
courted ; “ and if so, why does he come to our rooms ?” 

Brogten might, perhaps, have thrown light on the 
subject had he chosen. 

“ Well ” lie said, 44 I’ll give him a hint.” 

“Do ; and get him to ask De Yayne.” 

Brogten did so ; Kennedy assented to asking Bruce, 
though he listened to Brogten’s hints (which he in- 
stantly understood) with a sullenness which but a short 
time before had no existence, not even a prototype, in 
his bright and genial character. But when it came to 
asking De Yayne, he simply replied to Brogten’s sug- 
gestion flatly — 

“ I will not.” 

“ Won’t you ? but why ?” 

“Why? because I suspect you and that fellow 
Bruce of wishing to treat him as you treated Ilazlet.” 

“I’ve no designs against him whatever.” 

“Well, I won’t ask him, — that’s flat.” 

“ Whew-ew-ew-ew-ew ! ” Brogten began to whistle, 
and Kennedy relieved his feelings by digging the poker 
into the fire. And then there was a pause. 

“I want you to ask De Yayne.” 

“And I tell you I won’t ask him.” 

“ Whew-w-w-w ! ” Another long whistle, during 
which Kennedy mashed and battered the black lumps 
that smouldered in the grate. 

« Whew-ew-ew-ew ! Oh very well.” Brogten left the 
room. At hall that day Brogten took care to sit near 
Kennedy again, and the old scene was nearly re-enacted, 
lie turned the conversation to the Christmas examina- 
tion. “ I suppose you’ll be very high again, Kennedy.” 

“ Ko,” said he, curtly ; “ I’ve not read, and you know 
that as well as I do.” 

“O, but you hadn’t read much last time, and you 
may do some particular paper very well, you know. I 


218 


JULIAN HOME. 


wish there was an H5schylus paper ; yon might be first, 
yon know, again.” 

Kennedy flung down his knife and fork with a curse, 
and left the hall. Men began to see clearly that there 
must have been some mystery attached to the HCschy- 
lus paper, known to Brogten and Kennedy, and very 
discomforting to the latter. But as Kennedy was con- 
cerned, they did not suspect the truth. 

Brogten went straight from hall to Kennedy’s rooms. 
He found the door sported, but knew as well as pos- 
sible that Kennedy was in. He hammered and thumped 
at the door a long time with sundry imprecations, but 
Kennedy, moodily resolute, heard all the noise inside, 
and would not stir. Then Brogten took out a card and 
wrote on the back “I think you’ll ask De Vayne,” and 
dropped it into the letter-box. 

That evening he found in his own letter-box a slip of 
paper. “ De Yayne is coming to wine with me to-mor- 
row. Come, and the foul fiend take you. I have filled 
my decanters half -full of water, and won’t bring out 
more than one bottle. E. K.” 

Brogten read the note and chuckled, — partly with 
the thought of Kennedy, partly of Bruce, partly of De 
Yayne. Yet the chuckle ended in a very heavy sigh. 




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. 

Kennedy’s wine-party, and what came of it. 

“ Et je n’ai moi 
Par la sang Dieu ! 

Ni foi, ni loi, 

Ni jeu, ni feu, 

Ni roi, ni Dieu.” 

Victor Hugo, Notre Dame de Paris . 

“ Nay, that’s certain ; but yet the pity of it, 

Iago ! — O Iago, the pity of it, Iago ! ” 

Othello, iv. 1. 

“Are yon going to Kennedy’s, Julian?” asked De 
Vayne. 

“No.” 

“ I wish he’d asked you.” 

Julian a little wondered why he had not, but remem- 
bered, with a sigh, that there was something , he knew 
not what, between him and Kennedy. Yet Kennedy 
was engaged to Violet ! The thought carried him back 
to the beautiful memories of Grindelwald and Miirrem, 
— perhaps of Eva Kennedy : I will not say. 

As De Vayne glanced round at the men assembled 
at Kennedy’s rooms, he felt a little vexation, and half- 
wished he had not come. Why on earth did Kennedy 
see so much of these Bruces and Brogtens when he 
was so thoroughly unlike them? But De Vayne con- 
soled himself with the reflection that the evening could 
not fail to be pleasant, as Kennedy was there; for he 
liked Kennedy both for Julian’s sake and for his own. 
Happily for him he did not know as yet that Kennedy 
was affianced to Violet Home. 

Kennedy sat at the end of the table with a gloomy 

219 



220 


JULIAN HOME. 


cloud on his brow. “ Here, De Vayne,” he said ; “ I’m 
so really glad to see you at last. Sit by me — here’s a 
chair.” 

De Vayne took the proffered seat, and Bruce imme- 
diately seated himself at his left hand. At first, as the 
wine was passed round, there seemed likely to be but 
little conversation, but suddenly some one started the 
subject of a “ cause celebre ” which was then filling the 
papers, and Kennedy began at once to discuss it with 
some interest with De Vayne, who sat nearly facing 
him, almost with his back turned to Bruce, who did 
not seem particularly anxious to attract De Vayne’s 
attention. 

“ What execrable wine,” said Brogten, emptying his 
glass. 

De Vayne, surprised and disgusted at the rudeness 
of the remark, turned hastily round, and, while Bruce 
as hastily withdrew his hand, raised the wine-glass to 
his lips. 

“ Stop, stop, De Vayne,” said Bruce eagerly ; “ there’s 
a fly in your glass.” 

“ I see no fly,” said De Vayne, glancing at it, and 
immediately draining it, with "the intention of saying 
something to smooth Kennedy’s feelings, which he 
supposed would have been hurt by Brogten’s want of 
common politeness. 

“ I think it very ” Why did his words fail, and 

what was the reason of that scared look with which he 
regarded the blank faces of the other undergraduates ? 
And what is the meaning of that gasp, and the rapid 
dropping of the head upon the breast, and the deadly 
pallor that suddenly put out the fair color in his cheeks ? 
There was no fly — but, good heavens ! was there death 
in the glass? 

The whole party leapt up from their places, and gath- 
ered round him. 

“What is the matter, De Vayne?” said Kennedy 
tenderly, as he knelt down and "supported the young 
man in his arms. But there was no answer. “ Here 
D’ Acres, or somebody, for heaven’s sake fetch a doctor ; 
he must have been seized with a fit.” 


JULIAN HOME . 221 

“ What have you been doing , Bruce?” thundered 
Brogten. 

“ Bruce doing! ” said Kennedy wildly, as he sprang 
to his feet. “ By the God above us, if I thought this 
was any of your devilish machinations, I would strike 
you to the earth ? ” 

“Doing? I?” stammered Bruce. “What do you 
mean?” He trembled in every limb, and his face was 
as pale as that of his victim ; yet, though perhaps De 
Yay ne’s life depended on it, the young wretch would 
not say what he had done. He had meant but to put 
four or five drops into his glass, but De Vayne had 
turned round suddenly and startled him in the very 
act, and in the hurried agitation of the moment his 
hand had slipped, and he had poured in all the contents 
of the bottle, with barely time to hurry it empty into 
his pocket, or to prevent the consequences of what 
he had done, when De Vayne lifted the glass to his 
lips. 

The men all stood round De Vayne and Kennedy in 
a helpless crowd, and Kennedy said, “ Here, fetch a 
doctor, somebody, and let all go except D’Acres ; so 
many are only in the way.” 

The little group dispersed, and two of them ran off 
to find a doctor ; but Bruce stood there still with open 
mouth, and a countenance as pale in its horror as that 
of the fainting viscount. He was anxious to tell the 
truth about the matter in order to avert worse conse- 
quences, and yet he dared not, — the words died away 
upon his lips. 

“ Don’t stand like that, Bruce,” said Brogten indig- 
nantly, “ the least you can do is to make yourself use- 
ful. Go and get the key of De Vayne’s rooms from the 
porter’s lodge. Stop, though ! it will probably be in 
his pocket. Yes, here it is. Run and unlock his door, 
while we carry him to bed.” 

Bruce took the key with trembling hand, and shook 
so violently with nervous agitation that he could hardly 
make his way across the court. The others carried 
De Vayne to his bedroom as quickly as they could, 
and anxiously awaited the doctor’s arrival. The livid 


222 


JULIAN HOME. 


face, with the dry foam upon the lips, filled them with 
alarm, but they had not any conception what to do, 
and fancied that De Vayne was in a fit. 

It took Dr. Masham a very short time to see that 
his patient was suffering from the influence of some 
poison, and when he discovered this, he cleared the 
room, and at once applied the proper remedies. But 
time had been lost already, and he was the less able to 
set to work at first from his complete ignorance of what 
had happened. He sat up all night with his patient, 
but was more than doubtful whether it was not too 
late to save his life. 

The news that De Vayne had been seized with a fit 
at Kennedy’s rooms soon changed into a darker rumor. 
Men had not forgotten the affair of Hazlet, and they 
suspected that some foul play had been practised on 
one whom all who knew him loved, and whom all, 
though personally unacquainted with him, heartily re- 
spected. That this was really the fact soon ceased to 
be a secret; but who was guilty, and what had been 
the manner or motives of the crime remained unknown, 
and this uncertainty left room for the wildest sur- 
mises. 

The dons were not slow to hear of what had hap- 
pened, and they regarded the matter in so serious a 
light that they summoned a Seniority for its immediate 
investigation. Kennedy was obviously the first person 
of whom to make inquiries, and he told them exactly 
what had occurred, viz., that De Vayne after drinking 
a single glass of wine, fell back in his chair in the con- 
dition wherein he still continued. 

“ Was anything the matter with the wine, Mr. Ken- 
nedy ? ” asked Mr. Norton, who, as one of the tutors, 
had a seat on the board. 

“ Nothing, sir ; it was the same which we were all 
drinking.” 

“ And without any bad effects ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ But, Mr. Kennedy, there seems strong reason to 
believe that some one drugged Lord De Vayne’s wine? 
Were you privy to any such plan?” 


JULIAN HOME. 


223 


“ No, sir — not exactly,” said Kennedy slowly, and 
with hesitation. 

“Really, sir,” said the Master of St. Werner’s, “such 
an answer is grossly to your discredit. Favor us 
by being more explicit : what do you mean by 4 not 
exactly ? ’” 

Kennedy’s passionate and fiery pride, which had 
recently increased with the troubles and self-reproba- 
tion of his life, could ill brook such questioning as 
this, and he answered haughtily, 

“ I was not aware that anything of this kind was 
intended.” 

“Anything of this kind; you did then expect some- 
thing to take place ? ” 

“ I thought I had taken sufficient precautions against 
it.” 

“Against it; against what?” asked Mr. Norton. 

Kennedy looked up at his questioner, as though he 
read in his face the decision as to whether he should 
speak or not. He would hardly have answered the 
Master or any of the others, but Mr. Norton was his 
friend, and there was something so manly and noble 
about his look and character, that Kennedy was en- 
couraged to proceed, and he said slowly, 

“ I suspected, sir, that there was some intention of 
attempting to make De Yayne drunk.” 

“You suspected that,” said Mr. Norton with as- 
tonishment and scorn, “and yet you lent your rooms 
for such a purpose. I am ashamed of you, Kennedy ; 
heartily and utterly ashamed.” 

Kennedy’s spirit was aroused by this bitter and 
public apostrophe. “I lent my rooms for no such 
purpose; on thf; contrary, if it existed, I did my best 
to defeat it.” 

“ What made you suspect it ? ” asked Dr. Rhodes, 
the Master. 

“Because a similar attempt was practised on an- 
other.” 

“At which it seems that you were present?” 

“ I was not.” Kennedy was too fiercely angry to 
answer] in more words than were absolutely required. 


224 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ I am sorry to say, Mr. Kennedy, you have not 
cleared yourself from the great disgrace of giving an 
invitation, though you supposed that it would be made 
the opportunity for perpetrating an infamous piece of 
mischief. Can you throw no more light on the sub- 
ject?” 

“ None.” 

“Will you bring the decanter out of which Lord De 
Yayne drank,” said one of the seniors after a pause, 
and with an intense belief in the acuteness of the sug- 
gestion. 

“ I don’t see what good it will do, but I will order 
my gyp to carry it here if you wish.” 

“ Do so, sir. And let me add,” said the Master, 
“ that a little more respectfulness of manner would be 
becoming in your present position.” 

Kennedy’s lip curled, and without answer he left 
the room to fetch the wine, grimly chuckling at the 
effect which the mixture would produce on Mr. Nor- 
ton’s fastidious taste. When he reached his rooms, 
he stumbled against the table in his hurry, and upset 
a little glass dish which held his pencils, one of which 
rolled away under the fender. In lifting the fender to 
pick it up, a piece of paper caught his eye, which the 
bedmaker in cleaning the room had swept out of sight 
in the morning. He looked at it, and saw in legible 
characters, “Laudanum, Poison.” It was the label 
which had been loosely tied on Bruce’s phial, and which 
had slipped off as he hurried it into his pocket. 

He read it, and as the horrid truth flashed across 
his mind, stood for a moment stupefied and dumb. His 
plan was instantly formed. Instead of returning to the 
conclave of seniors he ran straight off to the chemist’s, 
which was close by St. Werner’s. 

“Do you know anything of this label?” he said, 
thrusting it into the chemist’s hands. 

“ Yes,” said the man, after looking at it for a mo- 
ment; “it is the label of a bottle of laudanum which I 
sold yesterday morning to Mr. Bruce of St. Werner’s.” 

Without a word, Kennedy snatched it from him, 
and rushed back to. the Seniority, who were already 


JULIAN HOME. 


225 


beginning to wonder at his long absence. He threw 
down the piece of paper before Mr. Horton, who handed 
it to the Master. 

“I found that, sir, on the floor of my room.” 

“ And you know nothing of it ? ” 

“Yes. It belongs to a bottle purchased yesterday 
by Bruce.” 

Amazement and horror seemed to struggle in the 
minds of the old clergymen and lecturers as they sat 
at the table. 

“ We must send instantly for this young man,” said 
Mr. Horton; and in ten minutes Bruce entered, pale 
indeed, but in a faultless costume, with a bow of easy 
grace, and a smile of polite recognition towards such 
of the board as he personally knew. lie was totally 
unaware of what had been going on during Kennedy’s 
cross-examination. 

“Mr. Bruce,” said Mr. Horton, to whom they all 
seemed gladly to resign the task of discovering the 
truth, “ do you know anything of the cause of Lord 
De Yay ne’s sudden attack of illness last night.” 

“ I, sir ? Certainly not.” 

“He sat next to you, did he not?” 

“ He did, I believe. Yes. I can’t be quite sure — 
but I think he did.” 

“You know he did as well as I do,” said Kennedy. 

“Mr. Kennedy, let me request you to be silent. Mr. 
Bruce, had you any designs against Lord De Vayne?” 

“ Designs, sir ? Excuse me, but I am at a loss to 
understand your meaning.” 

“You had no intention then of making him drunk ?” 

“ Really, sir, you astonish me by such coarse impu- 
tations. Is it you,” he said, turning angrily to 
Kennedy, “who have been saying such things of 
me?” 

Kennedy deigned no reply. 

“ I should think the testimony of a man who doesn’t 
scruple secretly to read examination-papers before 
they are set ought not to stand for much.” Brogten, 
as we have already mentioned, had revealed to him 
the secret of Kennedy’s dishonor. This remark fell 
15 


226 


JULIAN HOME. 


quite dead: Kennedy sat unmoved, and Mr. Norton 
replied — 

“Pray don’t introduce your personal altercations 
here, Mr. Bruce, on irrelevant topics. Mr. Bruce,” he 
continued, suddenly giving him the label, “have you 
ever seen that before ? ” 

With a cry of agony, Bruce saw the paper, and 
struck his forehead with his hand. The sudden blow 
of shameful detection, with all its train of consequences, 
utterly unmanned him, and falling on his knees, he 
cried incoherently — 

“ O ! I did it, I did it. I didn’t mean to ; my hand 
slipped : indeed, indeed it did. For God’s sake, for- 
give me, and let this not be known. I will give you 
thousands to hush it up ” 

A general exclamation of indignation and disgust 
stopped his prayers, and the Master gave orders that 
he should be removed and watched. lie was dragged 
away, tearing his hair and sobbing like a child. Ken- 
nedy, too, was ordered to retire. 

It took the seniors but a short time to deliberate, 
and then Bruce was summoned. lie would have 
spoken, but the Master sternly ordered him to be 
silent, and said to him — 

“ Vyvyan Bruce, you are convicted by your own con- 
fession, extorted after deliberate falsehood, of having 
wished to drug the wine of a fellow-student for the 
purpose of entrapping him into a sin to which you 
would otherwise have failed to tempt him. What 
fearful results may follow from your wickedness we 
cannot yet know, and you may have to answer for this 
crime before another tribunal. Be that as it may, it 
is hardly necessary to tell you that your time as a 
student at St. Werner’s has ended. You are expelled, 
and I now proceed to erase your name from the books.” 
(Here the Master ran his pen two or three times 
through Bruce’s signature in the college register.) 
“ Your rooms must be finally vacated to-morrow. 
You need say nothing in self-defence, and may go.” 
As Bruce seemed determined to plead his own cause, 
they ordered the attendant to remove him immediately. 


JULIAN HOME. 


227 


Kennedy was then sent for, and they could not help 
pitying him, for he was a favorite with them all. 

“ Mr. Kennedy,” said the senior dean, “ the Master 
desires me to admonish you for your very culpable 
connivance — for I have no other name for it — in the 
great folly and wickedness of which Mr. Bruce has 
been convicted ” 

“ I did not connive,” said Kennedy. 

“ Silence, sir! ” 

“ But I will not keep silence ; you accuse me falsely.” 

“We shall be obliged to take further measures, Mr. 
Kennedy, if you behave in this refractory way.” 

“ I don’t care what measures you take. I cannot 
listen in silence to an accusation which I loathe — of a 
crime of which I am wholly innocent.” 

“ Why, sir, you confessed that you suspected some 
unfair design.” 

“ But not this design. Proceed, sir; I will not in- 
terrupt you again: but let me say that I am totally 
indifferent to any blame which you throw on me for a 
brutality of which the whole responsibility rests on 
others.” 

The thread of the dean’s oration was quite broken 
by Kennedy’s impetuous interruption, and he merely 
added — “Well, Mr. Kennedy, I am sorry to see you so 
little penitent for the position in which you have 
placed yourself. You have disappointed the expecta- 
tion of all your friends, and however you may brazen 
it out, your character has contracted a stain.” 

“ You can say so, sir, if you choose,” said Kennedy, 
and he left the room with a formal bow. 

A few days after, Mr. Grayson asked him to what 
Bruce had alluded in his insinuation about an examin- 
tion-paper ? ” 

“ He alludes, sir, to an event which happened some 
time ago.” 

Further questions were useless ; nevertheless Ken- 
nedy saw that his tutor’s suspicions were not only 
aroused, but that they had taken the true direction. 
Mr. Grayson despised him, and in St, Werner’s he had 
lost caste. 


228 


JULIAN HOME. 


That evening Bruce vanished from Camford, with 
the regrets of few except his tailors and his duns. To 
this day he has not paid bis college debts or discharged 
the bili for the gorgeous furniture of his rooms. But 
we shall hear of him again. 




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. 

DE VAYNE’s CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS. 

“ He that for love hath undergone 
The worst that can befall, 

Is happier thousandfold than one 
Who never loved at all. 

A grace within his soul hath reigned, 

Which nothing else can bring ; 

Thank God for all that I have gained 
By that high suffering.” 

Monckton Milnes. 

For many days Lord De Vayne seemed to be hover 
ing between life and death. The depression of his 
spirits weighed upon his frame, and greatly retarded 
his recovery. That he, unconscious as he was of ever 
having made an enemy — good and gentle to all — with 
no desire but to love his neighbor as himself, and to 
devote such talents and such opportunities as had 
been vouchsafed him to God’s glory and man’s benefit ; 
that he should have been made the subject of a dis- 
graceful wager, and the butt of an infamous experi- 
ment; that in endeavoring to carry out this nefarious 
plan, any one should have been so wickedly reckless, 
so criminally thoughtless; — this knowledge lay on his 
imagination with a depression as of coming death. De 
Vayne had been but little in St. Werner’s society, and 
had rarely seen any but his few chosen friends ; and 
that such a calamity should have happened in the 
rooms and at the table of one of those friends, — that 
Kennedy, whom he so much loved and admired, should 
be suspected of being privy to it;— this fact was one 


230 JULIAN HOME. 

which made De Vayne’s heart sink within him with 
anguish and horror, and a weariness of life. 

And in those troubled waters of painful thought 
floated the broken gleams of a golden phantasy, the 
rainbow-colored memories of a secret love. They came 
like a light upon the darkened waves, yet a light too 
feeble to dissipate the under-gloom. Like the phos- 
phorescent flashes in the sea at midnight which the 
lonely voyager, watching with interest as they glow 
in the white wake of the keel, guesses that they may 
be the heralds of a storm,— so these bright reminis- 
cences of happier days only gave a weird beauty to the 
tumult of the sick boy’s mind ; and the mother, as she 
sat by him night and day during the crisis of his suf- 
fering, listened with a deeper anxiety for future trouble 
to the delirious revelations of his love. 

For Lady De Vayne had come from LTther Hall to 
nurse her sick son. She slept on a sofa in his sitting- 
room, and nursed him with such tenderness as only a 
mother can. There was no immediate possibility of 
removing him ; deep, unbroken quiet was his only 
chance of life. The silence of his sick-room was undis- 
turbed save by the softest whispers and the lightest 
foot-falls, and the very undergraduates hushed their 
voices, and checked their hasty steps as they passed in 
the echoing cloisters underneath, and remembered that 
the flame of life was flickering Lav in the golden vase. 

De Vayne was much beloved, and nothing could ex- 
ceed the delicacy of the attention shown him. Choice 
conservatory flowers were left almost daily at his door, 
and men procured rare and rich fruits from home or 
from London, not because De Vayne needed any such 
luxuries, which were easily at his command, but that 
they might show him their sympathy and distress. 
Several ladies more or less connected with St. Wer- 
ner’s offered their services to Lady De Vayne, but she 
would not leave her son, in whose welfare and recovery 
her whole thoughts were absorbed. 

And so, gloomily for the son and mother, the Christ- 
mas holidays came on, and St. Werner’s was deserted. 
Scarcely even a stray undergraduate lingered in the 


JULIAN HOME, 


231 


courts, and the chapel was closed; no sound of choir 
or organ came sweetly across the lawns at morning or 
evening ; the ceaseless melancholy plash of the great 
fountain was almost the only sound that broke the 
stillness. Julian, Lillyston, and Owen had all gone 
down for their holidays, full of grief at the thought 
of leaving their friend in such a precarious state, but 
as yet not permitted to see or serve him. Lady De 
Vayne promised to write to Julian regular accounts 
of Arthur’s health, and told him how often her son 
spoke of him both in his wanderings and in his clearer 
moments. 

It was touching to see the stately and beautiful lady 
walking alone at evening about the deserted college, 
to gain a breath of the keen winter air, while her son 
had sunk for a few moments to fitful rest. She was 
pale with long watchings and deep anxiety, and in her 
whole countenance, and in her deep and often uplifted 
eyes, was that look of prayerfulness and holy com- 
munion with an unseen world, which they acquire 
whose abode has long been in the house of mourning, 
and removed from the follies and frivolities of life. 

Well-loved grounds of St. Werner’s by the quiet 
waves of the sedgy river, with smooth green grass 
sloping down to the edge, and trim quaint gardens, 
and long avenues of chestnut and ancient limes! 
Though winter had long whirled away the last red and 
golden leaf, there was pleasure in the air of quiet and 
repose, which is always to be found in those memory- 
hallowed walks; and while Lady De Vayne could pace 
among them in solitude, she needed no other change, 
nor any rest from thinking over her sick son. 

She was surprised one evening, very soon after the 
men had gone down, to see an undergraduate slowly 
approaching her down the long and silent avenue. 
He was tall and well-made, and his face would have 
been a pleasant one but for the deep look of sadness 
which clouded it. He hesitated and took off his cap 
as she came near, and returning his salute, she would 
have passed him, but he stopped her and said, — 

“Lady De Vayne.” 


232 


JULIAN HOME. 


Full of surprise she looked at him, and with his 
eyes fixed on the ground he continued, “You do not 
know my name ; if I tell you, I fear you will hate me, 
because I fear you will have heard calumnies about 
me. But may I speak to you ? ” 

“ You are not Mr. Bruce ? ” she said with a slight 
shudder. 

“No, my name is Edward Kennedy. Ah, madam! 
do not look at me so reproachfully, I cannot endure it. 
Believe me, I would have died — I would indeed — 
rather than that this should have happened to Lord De 
Vayne.” 

“ Nay, Mr. Kennedy, I cannot believe that you were 
more than thoughtless. I have ' very often heard 
Julian Home speak of you, and I cannot believe that 
his chosen friend could be so vile as some reports 
would make you.” 

“ They are false as calumny itself,” he said passion- 
ately. “ O Lady De Vayne ! none could have honored 
and loved your son more than I did ; I cannot explain 
to you the long story of my exculpation, but I implore 
you to believe my innocence.” 

“I forgive you, Mr. Kennedy,” she said, touched 
with pity, “ if there be anything to forgive ; and so 
will Arthur. A more forgiving spirit than his never 
filled any one, I think. Excuse me, it is time for me 
to return to him.” 

“ But will you not let me see him, and help you in nurs- 
ing him? It was for this purpose alone that I stayed 
here when all the others went. Let me at least be 
near him, that I may feel myself to be making such 
poor reparation as my heedlessness requires.” 

She could hardly resist his earnest entreaty, and 
besides she was won by compassion for his evident 
distress. 

“You may come, Mr. Kennedy, as often as you like; 
whenever Arthur is capable of seeing you, you shall 
visit his sick-room.” 

“Thank you,” he said, and she perceived the tremble 
of deep emotion in his voice. 

He came the next morning, and she allowed him to 


JULIAN HOME* 


m 


see De Vayne. He entered noiselessly, and gazed for 
a moment as he stood at the door on the pale wasted 
face, looking still paler in contrast with the long dark 
hair that flowed over the pillow. He was awake, but 
there was no consciousness in his dark dreamy eyes. 

As De Vayne murmured to himself in low sentences, 
Kennedy heard repeatedly the name of Violet, and 
once of Violet Home. He sat still as death, and soon 
gathered from the young lord’s broken words his love, 
his deep love for Julian’s sister. 

And when Kennedy first recognized this fact, which 
had hitherto been quite unknown to him, for a moment 
a flood of jealousy and bitter envy filled his heart. 
What if Violet should give up her troth in favor of a 
wealthier, perhaps worthier lover? What if her fam- 
ily should think his own poor claims no barrier to the 
hope that Violet should one day wear a coronet? The 
image of Julian and Violet rose up in his fancy, and 
with one more pang of self-reproach, he grew ashamed 
of his unworthy suspicions. 

Yet the thought that De Vayne, too, had fixed his 
affections on Violet filled him with uneasiness and 
foreboding, and he determined, on some future occa- 
sion, to save pain to all parties by getting Julian to 
break to De Vayne the secret of his sister’s betrothal. 

For several days he came to the sick-room, and a 
woman could hardly have been more thoughtful and 
tender than he was to his friend. It was on about 
the fourth evening that De Vayne awoke to complete 
consciousness. He became aware that some one be- 
sides his mother was seated in the room, and without 
asking he seemed slowly to recognize that it was 
Kennedy. 

“ Is that Kennedy ? ” he asked in a weak voice. 

“ It is I,” said Kennedy ; but the patient did not 
answer, and seemed restless and uneasy and com- 
plained of cold. 

When Kennedy went, De Vayne whispered to his 
mother, “ Mother, I am very weak and foolish, but it 
troubles me somehow to see Kennedy sitting there ; it 
shocks my nerves, and fills me with images of some- 


JULIAN BOMB. 


234 

thing dreadful happening. I had rather not see him, 
mother, till I am well.' 5 

“Very well, Arthur. Don’t talk so much, love; I 
alone will nurse you. Soon I hope you will be able to 
return to Uther.” 

“And leave this dreadful place,” he said, “ forever.” 

“Hush, my boy; try to sleep again.” 

He soon slept, and then Lady De Vayne wrote to 
Kennedy a short note, in which she explained as kindly 
and considerately as she could that Arthur was not 
yet strong enough to allow of any more visits to his 
sick-room. 

“ He shuns me,” thought Kennedy, with a sigh ; 
and packing up some books and clothes, he prepared 
to go home. 

Of course he was to spend part of the vacation at 
Ildown. Violet wondered that he did not come at 
once; she was not exactly jealous of him, but she 
thought that he might have been more eager for her 
company than he seemed to be, and she would have 
liked it better had he come earlier. Poor Kennedy ! 
his very self-denials turned against him ; for the sole 
reason why he kept away from Ildown was, that he 
feared to disturb the freedom of Frank and Cyril by 
the presence of a stranger all the time of their holidays, 
and he hesitated to intrude on the united happiness 
which always characterized the Ildown circle. 

Eva, too, was invited, and the brother and sister 
arrived at Ildown by a late train, and drove to the 
house. What a glowing welcome they received ! 
Julian introduced them to Mrs. Home, and Kennedy 
kissed affectionately the hand of his future mother. 
Frank and Cyril had gone to bed, but Frank was so 
determined to see Violet’s lover that night that he 
made Julian bring him into their bedroom, and he was 
more than satisfied with the first glimpse. 

Of the meeting between Kennedy and Violet I need 
not speak. Suffice it that as yet they were happy in 
each other’s love. In her presence the clouds which 
the many sorrows of his Camford life had gathered on 
his brow were chased away ; and who that saw them 


JULIAN HOME. 


235 

would not have said that he was worthy of her, as she 
of him ? 

While poor De Vayne languished on the bed of sick- 
ness his sufferings were almost the only shadow which 
chequered the brightness of those weeks at Ildown. 
In the morning Julian and Kennedy worked steadily ; 
the afternoon and evening they devoted to amusement 
and social life. The Kennedy s soon became great 
favorites among the Ildown people, and went out to 
many cheery Christmas parties ; but they enjoyed 
more the quiet evenings at home when they all sat and 
talked after dinner round the dining-room fire ; and 
while the two boys played at chess, and Violet and 
Eva worked or sketched, Julian and Kennedy would 
read aloud to them in turns. IIow often those even- 
ings recurred to all their memories in future days ! 

Soon after the Kennedys had come Julian received 
from Camford the Christmas college-list. lie had 
again won a first-class, but Kennedy’s name, much to 
his vexation, appeared only in the third. 

“ How is it that Edward is only in the third class ? ” 
asked Violet of Julian — for, of course, she had seen 
the list. “ He is very clever — is he not?” 

“Very; one of the cleverest fellows in St. Wer- 
ner’s.” 

“ Then is he idle?” 

“I’m afraid so, Vi.; you must get him to work 
more.” 

So when he was seated by her on the sofa in her 
little boudoir, she said, “ You must work more, Edward, 
at Camford, to please me.” 

“Ah, do not talk to me of Camford,” he said, with 
a heavy sigh. “Let me enjoy unbroken happiness for 
a time, and leave the bitter future to itself.” 

“Bitter, Edward! but why bitter ? Julian always 
seems to me so happy at Camford.” 

“Yes, Julian is, and so are all who deserve to be.” 

“Then you must be happy too, Edward.” 

Ilis only answer was a sigh. “Ah, Violet, pray talk 
to me of anything but Camford.” 

The visit came to an end, as all things, whether 


286 


JULIAN HOME. 


happy or unhappy, must; and Julian rejoiced that 
confidence seemed restored between him and Kennedy 
once more. Of course he told Violet none of the follies 
which had cost poor Kennedy the loss both of popu- 
larity and self-respect. Soon afterwards Lord De 
Vayne was brought back to Uther Hall, and Violet 
and Julian were invited, with their mother, to stay 
there till the Camford term commenced. The boys 
had returned to school, so that they all acceded to 
Lady De Vayne’s earnest request that they would 
come. 

It was astonishing how rapidly the young viscount 
recovered when once Violet had come to Uther Hall. 
Her presence seemed to fill him with fresh life, and he 
soon began to get downstairs, and even to venture on 
a short walk in the park. His constitution had suffered 
a serious and permanent injury, but he was pronounced 
convalescent before the Homes finished their visit. 

The last evening before their departure he was 
seated with Violet on a rustic seaton the terrace, look- 
ing at the sun as it set behind the distant elms of the 
park, and at the deer as they grazed in lovely groups 
on the rich undulating slopes that swept down from 
the slight eminence on which his house was built. 
He felt that the time had come to speak his love. 

“ Violet,” he said, as he looked earnestly at her, and 
took her hand, “ you have, doubtless, seen that I love 
you. Can you ever return my love? Iam ready to 
live and die for you, and to give you my whole affec- 
tion.” His voice was still low and weak through ill- 
ness, and he could hardly speak the sentences which 
were to win for him a decision of his fate. 

Violet was taken by surprise ; she had known Lord 
De Vayne so long and so intimately, and their stations 
were so different, that the thought of his loving her 
had never entered her head. She regarded him famil- 
iarly as her brother’s friend. 

“ Dear De Vayne,” she said, “ I shall always love 
you as a friend, as a brother. But did you not know 
that I have been for some months engaged?” 

“Engaged ! ” he said, turning very pale. 


JULIAN HOME . 


237 


“I am betrothed,” she answered, “ to Edward Ken- 
nedy. Nay, Arthur, dear Arthur,” she continued, as 
he nearly fainted at her feet, “ you must not suffer this 
disappointment to overcome you. Love me still as a 
sister; regard me as though I were married already, 
and let us enjoy a happy friendship for many years.” 

He was too weak to bear up, too weak to talk; only 
the tears coursed each other fast down his cheeks as 
he murmured, “ O forgive me, forgive me, Violet.” 

“ Forgive you,” she said kindly ; “ nay, you honor 
me too much. Marry one of your own high rank, and 
not the orphan of a poor clergyman. I am sure you 
will not yield to this sorrow, and suffer it to make you 
ill. Bear up, Arthur, for your mother’s sake — for my 
sake ; and let us be as if these words had never passed 
between us.” 

She lent him her arm as he walked faintly to his 
room, and as he turned round and stooped to kiss her 
hand, she felt it wet with many tears. 

They went home next day, and soon after received a 
note from Lady De Vayne, informing them that Arthur 
was worse, and that they intended removing for some 
time to a seat of his in Scotland ; after which they 
meant to travel on the Continent for another year, if 
his health permitted it. “ But,” she said, “ I fear he 
has had a relapse, and his state is very precarious. 
Dear friends, think of us sometimes, and let us hope to 
meet again in happier days.” 



CHAPTER THE TWENTY -FIFTH. 

MEMORY THE BOOK OF GOD. 

“ At Trompyngtoun, nat fer fra Cantebrigge, 

Ther goth a brook, and over that a brigge, 

Upon the whiche brook then stant a melle ; 

And this is verray sothe that I you telle.” 

Chaucer. The Reeve's Tale . 

There is little which admits of external record in 
Julian’s life at this period of his university career. It 
was the usual uneventful, quiet life of a studious Cam- 
ford undergraduate. Happy it was beyond any other 
time, except perhaps a few vernal days of boyhood, but 
it was unmarked by any incidents. He read, and 
rowed, and went to lectures, and worked at classics, 
mathematics, and philosophy, and dropped in some- 
times to a debate or a private-business squabble at the 
Union, and played racquets, fives, and football, and 
talked eagerly in hall and men’s rooms over the ex- 
citing topics of the day, and occasionally went to wine 
or to breakfast with a don, and (absorbed in some 
grand old poet or historian) lingered by his lamp over 
the lettered page from chapel-time till the gray dawn, 
when he would retire to pure and refreshful sleep 
humming a tune out of very cheerfulness. 

Happy days, happy friendships, happy study, happy 
recreation, happy exemption from the cares of life ! 
The bright visions of a scholar, the bright hilarity of a 
youth, the bright acquaintanceship with many united 
by a brotherly bond within those gray walls, were so 
many mingled influences that ran together “ like warp 
238 


JULIAN HOME. 


239 


and woof” in the web of a singularly enviable life. 
And every day lie felt that he was knowing more, and 
acquiring a strength and power which should fit him 
hereafter for the more toilsome business and sterner 
struggles of common life. Well may old Cowley ex- 
claim — 


“ O pulcrse sine luxu oedes, vitoeque decorse 
Splendida paupertas ingenuusque pudor 1 ” 

All the reading men of his year were now anxiously 
occupied in working for the St. Werner’s scholarships. 
They were the blue ribbon of the place. In value 
they were not much more than £50 a year, but as the 
scholars had an honorable distinctive seat both in hall 
and chapel, and as from their ranks alone the Fellows 
were selected, all the most intelligent and earnest men 
used their best efforts to obtain them on the earliest 
possible occasion. At the scholars’ tables were gen- 
erally to be found the most distinguished among the 
alumni of St. Werner’s. 

Julian still moved chiefly among his old friends, 
although he had a large acquaintance, and by no means 
confined himself to the society of particular classes. 
But De Vayne’s illness made a sad gap in the circle 
of his most intimate associates, and he was not yet 
sufficiently recovered to attempt a correspondence. 
Among the dons, Julian began to like Mr. Admer more 
and more, and found that his cynicism of manner 
was but the result of disappointed ambition and un- 
steady aims, while his heart was sound and right. 

Kennedy, as well as Julian, had always hoped to 
gain a scholarship at his first trial, but now, with only 
one term left him to read in, his chance seemed to fade 
away to nothing. Boor fellow, he had returned with 
the strongest possible intention of working, and of 
abandoning at once and for ever all objectionable 
acquaintances and all dangerous ways. Hourly the 
sweet face of Violet looked in upon his silent thoughts, 
and filled him with shame as he thought of lost oppor- 
tunities and wasted hours. 

“ Kennedy,” said Mr, Admer, “ how can you bo so in- 


240 


JULIAN HOME. 


tolerably idle? I saw some of your Christmas papers, 
and they were wholly unworthy of your abilities.” 

“ I know it well. But what could you expect? The 
Pindar I had read once over with a crib ; the morality 
I had not looked at ; the mathematics I did not touch.” 

“But what excuse have you? I really feel quite 
angry with you. You are wholly throwing away 
everything. What have you to show for your time 
and money ? Only think, my dear fellow, that an op- 
portunity like this comes only once in life, and soon 
your college days will be over with nothing to remem- 
ber.” 

“ True, too true.” 

“ Well, I am glad that you see and own it. I 
began to fear that you were one of that contemptible 
would-be fine gentleman class that affects forsooth to 
despise work as a thing unworthy of their eminence.” 

“No, Mr. Admer,” said Kennedy, “my idleness 
springs from very different causes.” 

“And then these Brogtens and people, whom you 
are so often seen with ; which of them do you think 
understands you, or can teach you anything worth 
knowing? and which of them do you think you will 
ever care to look back to as acquaintances in after- 
days ? ” 

“Not one of them. I hate the whole set.” 

“And then, my dear Kennedy — for I speak to you 
out of real goodwill — I would say it with the utmost 
delicacy, but you must know that your name has 
suffered from the company you frequent.” 

“ Can I not see it to be so ? ” he answered moodily ; 
“no need to tell me that, when I read it in the faces 
of nearly every man I see. The men have not yet for- 
given me De Vayne’s absence, though really and truly 
that sin does not lie at my door. Except Home and 
Lillyston there is hardly a man I respect who does 
not look at me with averted eyes. Of course Grayson 
and the dons detest me to a man ; but I don’t care for 
them.’ 

“Then, you mysterious fellow, seeing all this sq 
clearly, why do you suffer it to be so ? ” 


JULIAN HOME . 


241 


Kennedy only shook his head; already there had 
begun to creep over him a feeling of despair ; already 
it seemed to him as though the gate of heaven were a 
lion-haunted portal guarded by a fiery sword. 

For he had soon found that his intense resolutions to 
do right met with formidable checks. There are two 
stern facts — facts which it does us all good to remem- 
ber — which generally lie in the path of repentance, 
and look like crouching lions to the remorseful soul. 
First, the fact that we become so entangled by habit 
and circumstance, so enslaved by association and cus- 
tom, that the very atmosphere around us seems to have 
become impregnated with a poison which we cannot 
cease to breathe; secondly, the fact that “ in the phys- 
ical world there is no forgiveness of sins / ” to abandon 
our evil courses is not to escape the punishment of 
them, and although we may have relinquished them 
wholly in the present, we cannot escape the conse- 
quences of the past. Remission of sins is not the 
remission of their results. The very monsters we 
dread, and the dread of which terrifies us into the con- 
sideration of our ways, glare upon us out of the future 
darkness, as large, as terrible, as irresistible, whether 
we approach them on the road to ruin, or whether we 
seem to fly from them through the hardly attained and 
narrow wicket of genuine repentance. 

Both these difficulties acted with their full force 
on the mind of Kennedy. His error was its own pun- 
ishment, and its heaviest punishment. The hours he 
had lost were lost so utterly, that he could never hope to 
recover them ; the undesirable acquaintances he had 
formed were so far ripe as to render it no light task to 
abandon them ; and above all, the fleck on his character, 
the connection of his name with the outrage on De 
Vayne, had injured his reputation in a manner which 
he never hoped, by future endeavors, to obviate or 
remove. 

For instance, there was at once an objection to his 
dropping the society of the set to which Bruce and 
Brogten had introduced him. He owed them money 
which at present he could not pay ; his undischarged 
16 


242 


JULIAN HOME. 


“debts of honor” hung like a millstone round his 
neck. To pay these seemed a necessary preliminary 
even to the possibility of commencing a new career. 

But how to get the money. Ah me ! new tempta- 
tions seemed springing up around like the crop of 
armed men from the furrows sown with the dragon’s 
teeth. 

There was but one way which suggested itself to 
his mind by which he would be able at once to deliver 
himself in part by meeting the most exigent demands. 
Let me hurry over the struggle which it cost him, but 
finally he adopted it. It was this. 

Mr. Kennedy was most liberal in allowing his son 
everything which could possibly further his university 
studies, and the most important item in his quarterly 
expenses- was the charge for private tuition. This 
sum was always paid by Kennedy himself, and it 
amounted at least to seven pounds a term. Kow, 
what if he should not only ask his father to allow him 
this term a classical and a mathematical tutor, but also 
request permission to read double with them both; 
i. e., to go for an hour every day instead of every other 
day ? This would at once procure him from his father 
the sum of twenty-eight pounds, and by means of this 
he could, with great economy, clear off all the most 
pressing of those pecuniary obligations which bound 
him to company which he ionged to shun, and exposed 
him to dangers which he had learnt to fear. Of course 
he would be obliged to forego all assistance from pri- 
vate tutors, and simply to appropriate the money, 
without his father’s knowledge, to other ends. In a 
high point of view it was mere embezzlement ; it was 
little better than a form of swindling. But in this 
gross and repulsive shape it never suggested itself 
to poor Kennedy’s imagination. Somehow one’s own 
sins never look so bad in our eyes as the same sins 
when committed by another. He argued that he would 
really be applying the money as his father intended, 
— viz., to such purposes as should most advance the 
objects of his university career. He was committing 
a sin to save himself from temptation. 


JULIAN HOME. 


243 


The near approach of the scholarship examination, 
and Kennedy’s failure at Christmas, made his father 
all the more ready to give him every possible advan- 
tage that money could procure. Ignorant of the fact, 
that to “read double ” with a tutor was almost a thing 
unprecedented at Camford, and that to do so both in 
classics and mathematics, was a thing wholly unknown, 
and indeed practically impossible, Mr. Kennedy was 
only delighted at Edward’s letter, as conveying a proof 
of his extreme and laudable eagerness to recover lost 
ground, and do his best. lie very readily wrote the 
cheque for the sum required, and praised his son liber- 
ally for these indications of effort. IIow those praises 
cut Kennedy to the heart ! 

But he at once spent the money in the way which 
he had devised, and added thereby a new load of 
mental bitterness to the heavy weight which already 
oppressed him. The sum thus appropriated greatly 
lightened, although it did not remove, the pecuniary 
obligations which he had contracted at cards or in 
other ways to his set of “fast” companions; but it 
was at the cost of his peace of mind. 

Externally he profited by the transaction. He was 
enabled in great measure, without the charge of mean- 
ness, to drop the most undesirable of his acquaintances, 
and awaking eagerly to the hope of at once redeeming 
his reputation and lessening his difficulties by gaining 
a scholarship, he began, for the first time since he had 
entered St. Werner’s, to work steadily with all his 
might. 

He seemed to be living two lives in one, and often 
asked himself whether there was in his character some 
deeply-rooted hypocrisy. With Julian, and Owen, and 
the men who resembled them, he could talk nobly of 
all that was honorable, and he powerfully upheld a 
chivalrous ideal of duty and virtue. And as his face 
lighted up, and the thoughts flowed in the full stream 
of eloquent language in reprobation of some mean act, 
or in glowing eulogium of some recorded heroism for 
the performance of what was right, who would have 
fancied, who would have believed that Kennedy’s own 


244 


JULIAN HOME. 


life had failed so egregiously in the commonest require- 
ments of steadfastness and honesty? 

None rejoiced more in the outward change of life 
than Julian Home ; for Violet’s sake now, as well as 
for Kennedy’s, he felt a keen and brotherly interest in 
the progress and estimation of his friend. Once more 
they were to be found together as often as they had 
been in their freshman’s year, and it was Julian’s 
countenance and affection that tended more than any- 
thing else to repair Kennedy’s damaged popularity, 
and remove the tarnish attaching to his name. 

One evening they were taking the usual two-hours’ 
constitutional — which is often the poor substitute for 
exercise in the case of reading men — and discussing 
together the chances of the coming scholarship examin- 
ation, when they found themselves near a place called 
Gower’s Mill, and heard a sudden cry for help. Press- 
ing forwards they saw a boat floating upside down, and 
whirling about tumultously in the racing and rain- 
swollen eddies of the mill-dam. A floating straw hat 
was already being sucked in by the gurgling rush of 
water that roared under the mighty circumference of 
the wheel, and for a moment they saw nothing more. 
But as they ran up, a black spot emerged from the 
stream, only a few yards from the mill, and they saw 
a man, evidently in the last stage of exhaustion, strug- 
gling feebly in the white and boiling waves. 

The position was agonizing. The man’s utmost 
efforts only served to keep him stationary, and it was 
clear, from the frantic violence of his exertion, that he 
could not last an instant longer. Indeed, as they 
reached the bank, he began to sink and disappear — 
disappear as it seemed to the certainty of a most horrid 
death. 

In one instant — without considering the danger and 
apparent hopelessness of the attempt, without looking 
at the wild force of the water, and the grinding roll of 
the big wheel, without even waiting to fling off their 
coats — Julian and Kennedy, actuated by the strong 
instinct to save a fellow-creature’s life, had both 
plunged into the mill-dam, and at the same moment 


JULIAN HOME. 


245 


struck out for tlie sinking figure. It was not till then 
that they felt their terrific danger; in the swirl of 
those spumy and hissing waves it was all hut impos- 
sible for them to make head against the current, and 
they felt it carry them nearer and nearer to the black, 
dripping mass, one blow of which would stun them, 
and one revolution of it mangle them with horrible 
mutilation. They reached the drowning wretch, and 
each seizing him by the arm, shouted for assistance, 
and buffeted gallantly with the headstrong stream. 
The senseless burden which they supported clogged 
their efforts, and as they felt themselves gradually 
swept nearer, nearer, nearer to destruction, the pas- 
sionate desire of self-preservation woke in both of 
them in all its wild agony ; — yet they would not at- 
tempt to preserve themselves by letting go the man 
to save whose life they had so terribly endangered 
their own. 

Meanwhile their repeated shouts and those of the 
swimmer, which had first attracted their own attention, 
had aroused the miller, who instantly, on hearing them, 
ran down with a rope to the water’s side. He threw 
it skilfully; with a wild clutch Kennedy caught it, and 
in another moment, as from the very jaws of death, 
when they were almost touching the fatal wheel, they 
were drawn to shore, still carrying, or rather drag- 
ging, with them their insensible companion. 

After a word of hurrried thanks to the miller for 
saving their lives, they began to turn their whole 
attention to the half-drowned man, and to apply the 
well-known remedies for restoring extinct animation. 

“Good heavens,” said Julian, “it is Brogten !” 

“ Brogten ! ” said Kennedy ; he looked on the face, 
and whispered half-aloud, “thank God! ” 

They carried him into the mill, put him between the 
blankets in a warm bed, chafed his numb limbs, and 
sent off for the nearest doctor. Very soon he began to 
revive, and recovered his consciousness; immediately 
this was the case Julian and Kennedy ran home as 
quickly as they could to change their wet clothes. 

The next day the doctor ordered Brogten to lie in 


246 


JULIAN NOME. 


becl till after mid-day, and then allowed him, now 
thoroughly well and rested, to walk home to St. Wer- 
ner’s. He had not yet learnt the names of his deliv- 
erers. 

He reached the college in the evening, and after 
changing his boating dress, his first care was to try 
and learn to whom he was indebted for his life. Al- 
most the first man he met told him that the men who 
had risked their safety for his were Home and Ken- 
nedy. 

Home and Kennedy ! Home, to whom he had 
caused the bitterest disappointment and done the most 
malicious injury which had ever happened to him in his 
life ; Kennedy, whom he had tried but too successfully 
to corrupt and ruin, tempt from duty, and push from 
his good name! 

Deeply, very deeply, was Brogten humiliated ; he 
felt that his enemies had indeed heaped coals of fire 
upon his head. 

He determined, as his first duty, to go and thank 
them both — Kennedy first, as the one against whom he 
had most wilfully sinned. 

He found Kennedy sitting down to tea, and Julian, 
Owen, and Suton were with him. 

“Kennedy,” he said, “I have come to thank you 
and Home for a very gallant deed; I need not say 
how much I feel indebted to you for the risk you ran 
in saving my life.” 

Genuine tears rushed into his dark eyes as he spoke, 
and cordially grasped the hands which, without a word, 
they proffered. Community of danger, consciousness 
of obligation, blotted out all evil memories ; and to 
have stood side by side together on the very brink of 
the precipice of death was a bond of union which 
could not be ignored or set aside. That night, in spite 
of bygones, the feeling of those three young men for 
each other was of the kindliest cast. 

“ Won’t you stay to tea, Brogten?” said Kennedy. 

He looked round, as though uncertain whether the 
others would like his company, but as they all seconded 
Kennedy’s request, he gladly stayed. It was the first 


JULIAN ROME. 


247 


evening that he had regularly spent in the society of 
reading men, and he was both delighted and surprised 
at the rare pleasure he received from the vigor and 
liveliness of their conversation. These were the men 
whom he had despised as slow, yet what a contrast be- 
tween their way of talking and the inanities of Fitzurse 
or the shallow flippancy of Bruce. As he sat there and 
listened, his very face became softer in its lines from 
the expression of a real and intelligent interest, and 
they all thought that he was a better fellow on closer 
acquaintance than they had been accustomed to sup- 
pose. Ah me \ how often one remains unaware of the 
good side of those whom we dislike. 

Oh those Camford conversations — how impetuous, 
how interesting, how thoroughly hearty and unconven- 
tional they were ! How utterly presumption and igno- 
rance were scouted in them, and how completely they 
were free from the least shadow of insincerity or ennui. 
If I could but transfer to my page a true and vivid 
picture of one such evening spent in the society of St. 
Werner’s friends — if I could write down but one such 
conversation, and at all express its vivacity, its quick 
flashes of thought and logic, its real desire for truth 
and knowledge, its friendly fearlessness, its felicitous 
illustrations, its unpremeditated wit, such a record, 
taken fresh from the life, would be worth all that I 
shall ever write. But youth flies, and as she flies all 
the bright colors fade from the wings of thought, and 
the bloom vanishes from the earnest eloquence of 
speech. 

Yet, as I write, let me call to mind, if but for a 
moment, the remembrance of those happy evenings, 
when we would meet to read Shakespeare or the poets 
in each other’s rooms, and pleasant sympathies and 
pleasant differences of opinion, freely discussed, called 
into genial life, friendships which we once hoped and 
believed would never have grown cold. The belief has 
proved to be mistaken, the hope delusive, and the 
evanescence of youthful friendships, amid the hardness 
and malice of the world, is not the least bitter of life’s 
experiences. But though the reality has ceased, who 


248 


JULIAN HOME. 


shall forbid to anyone the enjoyment of remembrance! 
Let the image of that bright social circle, picturesquely 
scattered in arm-chairs round the winter fire, rise up 
before my fancy once more, and let me recall what can 
never be again. Of the honored and well-loved few 
who one night recorded their names and thoughts in 
one precious little book two are dead, though it is but 

five years back ; C. E. B is dead ; and R. H. P 

is dead; C. E. B. , the chivalrous and gallant- 

hearted, the champion of the past, the “ Tory whom 

Liberals loved ; ” and R. II. P , the honest and noble, 

the eloquent speaker, and the brave actor, and the fear- 
less thinker — he, too, is dead, nobly volunteering in 
works of danger and difficulty during the Indian 
mutiny ; but others are living yet, and to them I con- 
secrate this page ; they will forgive the digression, and 
for their sakes I will venture to let it pass. We are 
scattered now, and our friendship is a silent one ; but 
yet I know that to them, at least, changed or un- 
changed, my words will recall the fading memory of 
glorious days. 

The conversation (but do not suppose that I shall at- 
tempt, after what I have said, to reproduce it) happened 
to turn that evening on the phenomena of memory. 
It started thus : — They had been discussing some sub- 
ject of the day, when Owen observed to Julian — 

“ Why, how grave you look, Julian.” 

“Do I? I was thinking of something odd. While 
you were talking — without the faintest apparent reason 
that I can discover (and I was trying to hit upon one 
when you spoke)— a fact started up in my mind which 
had no connection whatever with the subject, and yet 
which forced itself quite strongly and obtrusively on 
my notice.” 

“ Just as one catches sight suddenly of some stray 
bit of seaweed floating in a great world of waters, 
which seems to have no business there,” said Ken- 
nedy. 

“Yes. But there must have been some reason for 
my thinking of it just then.” 

“The law of association, depend upon it,” said Owen, 


JULIAN HOME. 249 

“ even if the connecting-links were so subtle and swiftly- 
moved that you failed to detect their presence.” 

“ Are you of the Materialist school, Owen, about 
memory?” said Julian ; “ i. e., do you go with Hobbes 
and Condillac, and make it a decaying sense or a trans- 
formed sensation ? ” 

“Not a bit; I believe it to be a spiritual faculty, 
entirely independent of mere physical organization.” 

“Wo-ho!” said Kennedy; “the physiologists will 
join issue with you there. How for instance do you 
account for such stories as that of the groom, who, get- 
ting a kick on a particular part of the head from a 
vicious horse, suffered no harm except in forgetting 
everything which had happened up to that time?” 

“ It isn’t a bit conclusive. 1 don’t say that the 
conscious exercise of memory mayn’t be temporarily 
dependent on organization, but I do believe that 
every fact ever imprinted on the memory, however 
long it may be latent, is of its very nature imperish- 
able.” 

“Yes,” said Suton. “Memory is the book of God. 
Did you see that story of the shipwreck the other day ? 
One of the survivors, while floating alone on the dark 
midnight sea, suddenly heard a voice saying to him 
distinctly 4 Johnny, did you eat sister’s grapes?’ It 
was the revived memory of a long-forgotten childish 
theft. What have the Materialists to say to that ? ” 

“ What a profound touch that was of Themistocles,” 
said Kennedy, “ who rejected the offer of a Memoria 
Technica, with the aspiration that some one could 
teach him to forget. Lethe is the grandest of rivers 
after all.” 

“ I can illustrate what you are saying,” said Brog- 
ten, “ and I believe it to be true that nothing can be 
utterly forgotten. Yesterday when you saw me I had 
sunk twice, and when you rescued me I was insensible. 
Strange things happened to my memory then ! ” 

“ Tell us,” said all of them eagerly. 

« Well. I believe it’s an old story, but I’ll tell you. 
When the first agony of fear, and a sort of gulp 
of asphyxia was over, I felt as if I was sinking into 


250 


JULIAN NOME. 


a pleasant sleep, surrounded by the light of green 
fields ” 

“ Because the veins of the eye were bloodshot, and 
green is the complementary color,” interpolated Ken- 
nedy, whereat Owen gave a little incredulous guffaw; 
and Brogten continued — 

“ Well, then it was that all my past life flashed be- 
fore me, from the least forgotten venial fault of infancy 
to the worst passion of youth, — only they came to me 
clear and vivid, in retrograde order. The lies I told 
when I was a little boy, the wicked words I spoke, 
the cruel things I did, the first taint that polluted my 
mind, the faces of school-fellows whom I had irrepar- 
ably injured, the stolen waters of manhood — all were 
dashed into my remorseful recollection ; they started 
up like buried, menacing ghosts, without, or even 
against my will. I felt convinced that they were in- 
destructible” 

“ That strain I heard was of a higher mood ! ” 

thought the auditors, for it was quite a new tiling to 
hear Brogten talk like this, and in such a solemn, 
manly, sober voice. 

“Fancy,” said Kennedy, sighing, “ an everlasting 
memory ! ” 

The others went away, but Brogten still lingered in 
Kennedy’s rooms, and, rising, took him by the hand. 
They both remembered another scene in these rooms, 
when they two were together, — the torturer and the 
tortured ; but it was different now. 

“ The worst thing that haunted me, Kennedy, when 
you were saving my life, was the thought of my wick- 
edness to you. I fear it can never be repaired ; yet, 
believe me, that from this day forth I have vowed be- 
fore God to turn over a new leaf, and my whole effort 
will be to do all for you that ever may be in my power ! 
Do you forgive me?” 

“ As I hope to be forgiven,” he replied. 

Yet it was part of Brogten’s punishment in after- 
days to remember that his hand had set the stone mov- 
ing on the steep hill-side, which afterwards he had no 


JULIAN HOME. 


251 


power to stay. It would not come back to him for a 
wish, but leapt, and rushed, and bounded forward, 
splintering and splintered by the obstacles in its 

course, till at last Could it be saved from being 

dashed to shivers among the smooth rocks of the valley 
and the brook ? 




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. 

HAZLET. 

“ And ride on his breast, and trouble his rest 
In the shape of his deadliest sin.” 

Anon. 

Before the scholarship, came the Little-go, so called 
in the language of men, but known to the gods as the 
Previous Examination. As it is an examination which 
all must pass, the standard required is of course very 
low, and the subjects are merely Paley’s Evidences, a 
little Greek Testament, some easy classic, Scripture 
History, and a sprinkling of arithmetic and algebra. 

The reading men simply regard it as a nuisance, in- 
terrupting their reading and wasting their time — i. e ., 
until the wisdom of maturer years shows them its 
necessity and use. But to the idle and the stupid the 
name Little-go is fraught with terror. It begins to 
loom upon them from the commencement of their sec- 
ond year, and all their efforts must be concentrated to 
avoid the disgrace and hindrance of a pluck. There 
are regular tutors to cram Poll men for this necessary 
ordeal, and the processes applied to introduce the 
smallest possible modicum of information into the 
heads of the victims, the surgical operations necessary 
to inculcate into them the simplest facts, would, if nar- 
rated, form a curious chapter in morbid psychology. I 
suggest this merely as a pregnant hint for the future 
historian of Camford ; personally I am only acquainted 
by report with the system resorted to. 

Ilazlet began to be in a fright about the Little-go, 
from the very commencement of his second October. 
His mother well knew that the examination was ap- 
252 


JULIAN HOME . 


253 


proaching, and thought it quite impossible that her 
ingenious and right-minded son could fall a victim to 
the malice of examiners. Ilazlet was not so sure of 
this himself, and as the days had passed by when he 
could speak of the classics with a holy indignation 
against their vices and idolatry, he was wrought up by 
dread of the coming papers into a high state of nervous 
excitement. 

I will not betray the mistakes he made, or dish up 
in this place the “ crambe repetita ” of those Little-go 
anecdotes which at this period of the year awaken the 
laughter of combination rooms, and dissipate the dul- 
ness of Camford life. Suffice it to say that Ilazlet dis- 
played an ignorance at once egregious and astounding ; 
the ingenious perversity of his mistakes, the fatuous 
absurdity of his confusions, would be inconceivable to 
any who do not know by experience the extraordinary 
combinations of ignorance and conceit. The examiners 
were very lenient and forbearing, but Ilazlet was 
plucked; plucked, too, in Scripture History, which 
astonished everybody, until it became known that he 
had attributed John the Baptist’s death to his having 
“danced with Ilerodias’s daughter” — traced a connec- 
tion between the Old and New Testaments in the fact 
of St. Peter’s having cut off the ear of Malachi the last 
of the prophets — and stated that the substance of St. 
Paul’s sermon at Athens was “ crying vehemently about 
the space of two hours, Great is Diana of the Ephe- 
sians ! ” 

It is a sad pity that such ludicrous associations 
should centre round the world “pluck.” It is any- 
thing but a laughing matter to those who undergo the 
process; they have tried hard and worked diligently 
perhaps to pass the examination, and if they fail they 
see before them another long period of weary and dis- 
satisfied effort, with the same probability of failure again 
and again repeated ; for until the barrier of the Little-go 
is passed they can advance no further, and must simply 
stay at Camford until in some way or other they can 
succeed in getting up the requisite minimum of infor- 
mation. I have seen a strong man in the senate-house 


254 


JULIAN HOME. 


turn as white as a sheet when a paper which he was 
unable to answer was placed before him. I fancy I see 
him now, and distinctly remember my strong feeling of 
compassion for his distress, and my earnest hope that 
he would not be “ floored.’’ 

There was a general laugh in St. Werner’s when it 
was announced that Hazlet was plucked ; and in Script- 
ure History too ! His follies and inconsistencies had 
unhappily made him a butt, but men little knew how 
heavily the misfortune would weigh upon him. 

He happened at this time to be living on the same 
staircase with Lillyston, and Lillyston, who was in the 
rooms below him, was quite amazed at the sounds 
which he heard proceeding from his rooms. For a long 
time there was a series of boo-hoos, long, loud, and 
wailing as of some animal in distress, and then there 
was an uproar as of some one running violently about, 
and throwing the furniture out of his way. Lillyston 
was just on the point of going to see what was the 
matter when the breathless bedmaker appeared at the 
door, and said — 

“ Oh, Mr. Lillyston, sir, do go and look at Mr. Haz- 
let, sir ; he’s took very bad, he is.” 

“ Took very bad — how do you mean ? ” 

“ Why, sir, it’s the Little-go, sir, as done it. He’s 
plucked, sir, and it’s upset him like. So, when I asked 
him if he’d a tea’d, and if I should take away the things, 
he begins a banging his chairs about, you see, sir, quite 
uncomfortable.” 

Lillyston immediately ran upstairs. The violent fit 
seemed to have subsided, for Hazlet, peering out of a 
corner, with wandering, spectacled eyes, quite cowered 
when he saw him. Lillyston was shocked at the spec- 
tacle he presented. Hazlet was but half-dressed, his 
hands kept up an uneasy and vague motion, his face 
was blank, and his whole appearance resembled that of 
an idiot. 

“ Why, Hazlet, my man, what’s the matter with 
you ? ” said Lillyston, cheerily. 

Hazlet trembled, and muttered something about a 
dog. It happened that just before coming back from 


JULIAN HOME. 


255 


the senate-house a large Newfoundland had run against 
him, and his excited imagination had mingled this most 
recent impression with the vagaries of a temporary 
madness. 

“ The dog, my dear fellow ; why there’s no dog 
here.” 

Hazlet only cowered farther into the corner. 

“ Here, won’t you have some tea ? ” said Lillyston ; 
“I’ll make it for you. Come and help me.” 

He began to busy himself about setting the tea- 
things, and cutting the bread, while he occupied Hazlet 
in pouring out the water and attending to the kettle. 
Hazlet started violently every now and then, and looked 
with a terrified side-giance at Lillyston, as though ap- 
prehensive of some wrong. 

At last Lillyston got him to sit down quietly, and 
gave him a cup of tea and some bread. He ate it in 
silence, except that every now and then he uttered a sort 
of wail, and, looked up at Lillyston. The look didn’t 
seem to satisfy him, for, after a few minutes, he seized 
his knife, and said, “ I shall cut off your whiskers.” 

What put the grotesque fancy into his head Lilly- 
ston did not know ; probably some faint reminiscence 
of having been forced to shave after the trick which 
Bruce had played on him by painting his face with 
lamp-black and ochre. 

Lillyston decidedly declined the proposition, and 
they both started up from their seats — Hazlet bran- 
dishing his knife with determined purpose, and looking 
at his companion with a strange savage glare under 
his spectacles. 

After darting round the room once or twice to escape 
his attack, Lillyston managed with wonderful skill to 
clutch the wrist of ITazlet’s right hand, and, being very 
strong, he held him with the grasp of a vice, while 
with his left hand he forced the knife out of his clutch, 
and dropped it on the floor. He held him tight for a 
minute or two, although Hazlet struggled so fiercely 
that it was no easy task, and then quietly forced him 
into a chair, and spoke to him in a firm authoritative 
voice — 


256 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ No mischief, Hazlet ; we shan’t allow it. Now 
listen to me : you must go to bed.” 

The tone of voice and the strength of will which 
characterized Lillyston’s proceedings awed Hazlet into 
submission. He cried a little, and then suffered Lilly- 
ston to see him into his rooms, and to put him into a fail- 
way towards going to bed. Taking the precaution 
to remove his razor, Lillyston locked the door upon 
him, and determined at once to get medical advice. 
The doctor, however, could give very little help ; it 
was, he said, a short fit of temporary madness, for 
which quiet and change of air were the only effectual 
remedies. He did not anticipate that there would be 
any other outbreak of violence, or anything more than 
a partial imbecility. 

“ Do come and help me to manage Hazlet,” said 
Lillyston to Julian next morning; “his head has been 
turned by being plucked for the Little-go, and he’s as 
mad as Hercules Furens.” 

Julian went, and they stayed in Hazlet’s room till he 
had quietly breakfasted. He then appeared to be so 
calm that Lillyston agreed to leave Julian there for the 
morning, and to take the charge of Hazlet for the after- 
noon and evening. It seemed absolutely necessary 
that some one should take charge of him, and they 
thought it best to divide the labor. 

Julian sorely felt the loss of time. He had a great 
deal to get through before the all-important scholar- 
ship examination, and the loss of every available hour 
fretted him, for since he had failed in the Clerkland, 
he was doubly anxious to gain a St. Werner’s scholar- 
ship at his first time of trial. Still, he never wavered 
for a moment in the determination to fulfil the duty of 
taking care of his Ildown acquaintance, and he spent 
the whole tedious morning in trying to amuse him. 

Hazlet’s ceaseless allusions to “ the dog,” and the 
feeble terror which it seemed to cause him, made it 
necessary to talk to him incessantly, and to turn his 
attention, as far as possible, to other things. He had 
to be managed like a very wilful and stupid child, and 
when one of the five hours which Julian had to spend 


JULIAN HOME. 


257 

with him was finished, he was worn out with anxiety 
and fatigue. It is a dreadful thing to be alone in 
charge of a human being — a being in human shape, 
who is, either by accident or constitution, incapable 
alike of responsibility and thought. Hazlet had been 
able to play draughts pretty well, so Julian got out a 
board and challenged him to a game; but instead of 
playing, Hazlet only scrabbled on the board, and pushed 
the pieces about in a meaningless confusion, while 
every now and then the sullen glare came into his eye 
which showed Julian the necessity of being on his 
guard if self-defence should be needed. Then Julian 
tried to get him to draw, and showing him a picture, 
sketched a few strokes of outline, and said — 

“Now, Hazlet, finish copying this picture for me.” 

Hazlet took the pencil between his unsteady fingers, 
and let it make futile scratches on the paper, and, 
when Julian repeated his words, wrote down in a slow 
painful hand — 

“ Finish copying piet-ure pict~” 

What was to be done in such a case as this? Julian 
suggested a turn in the grounds, but Hazlet betrayed 
such dread at the thought of leaving his rooms and en- 
countering “the dog,” that Julian was afraid, if he 
persisted, of driving him into a fit. 

Just as the dilemma was becoming seriously un- 
pleasant, Brogten came up to the rooms, and begged 
Julian to intrust Hazlet to his charge. 

“ Your time is valuable, Home — particularly just 
now. Mine is all but worthless. At any rate, I have 
no special work- as you have, and I can take care of 
poor Hazlet very well.” 

“ O no,” said Julian ; “ I mustn’t shrink from the 
duty I have undertaken, and besides, you’ll find it very 
dull and unpleasant work.” 

“ Never mind that. 1 once had an idiot brother — 
dead now — and I understand well how to manage any 
one in a case like this. Besides, Hazlet is one of the 
many I have injured. Let me stay.” 

“ I really am afraid you won’t like it.” 

“Nonsense, Home ; I won’t give in, depend upon it.- 

1/ 


258 


JULIAN HOME. 


I am quite in earnest, and am besides most anxious that 
you should get a scholarship this time. Don’t refuse 
me the privilege of helping you.” 

Julian could refuse no longer, and went back to his 
rooms with perfect confidence that Brogten would do 
his work willingly and well. He looked in about mid- 
day to see how things were going on, and found that, 
after thoroughly succeeding in amusing his patient, 
Brogten had persuaded him to go to sleep, in the con- 
viction that by the time he awoke he would be nearly 
well. Nor was he mistaken. The next day Hazlet 
was sufficiently recovered to go home for the Easter 
vacation. 

It was a very bitter and humiliating trial to him; 
but misfortune, however frequently it causes reforma- 
tion, is not invariably successful in changing a man’s 
heart and life. Hazlet came back after the Easter 
vacation with recovered health, but damaged constitu- 
tion, and in no respect either better or wiser for the 
misfortune he had undergone. 

One peculiarity of his recent attack was a strong 
nervous excitability which was induced by very slight 
causes, and Hazlet had not long returned to St. Wer- 
ner’s when the dissipation of his life began once more 
to tell perniciously upon his state of health. It must 
not be imagined that because he was the easiest possi- 
ble victim of temptation he suffered no upbraidings of a 
terrified and remorseful conscience. Many a time they 
overwhelmed him with agony and a dread of the future, 
mingling with his slavish terrors of a material Gehenna, 
and stirring up his turbid thoughts until they drove him 
to the verge of madness. But the inward chimera of 
riotous passions was too fierce for the weak human 
reason, and while he hated himself he continued still 
to sin. 

Late one night he was returning to his rooms from 
the foul haunts of squalid dissipation and living death 
when the thought of his own intolerable condition 
pressed on him with a heavier than usual weight. It 
was a very cloudy night, and he had long exceeded the 
usual college hours. The wind tossed about his clothes, 


JULIAN HOME . 


259 


and dashed in his face a keen impalpable sleet, while 
nothing dispelled the darkness except the occasional 
gleam of a lamp struggling fitfully with the driving 
mist. Hazlet reached St. Werner’s wet and miserable ; 
in returning he had lost his way, and wandered into 
the most disreputable and poverty-stricken streets, the 
very homes of thievery and dirt, where lie seriously 
feared for his personal safety. By the time he got to 
the college gates he was drenched through and through, 
and while his body shivered with the cold air, the 
condition of his mind was agitated and terrified, and 
the sudden blaze of light that fell on him from the 
large college lamp, as the gates opened, dazzled his 
unaccustomed eyes. 

Hastily running across the court to his own rooms, 
he groped his way — giddy and crapulous — up the dark 
and narrow staircase, and after some fumbling with 
his key opened the door. 

Lillyston, who was just going to bed after a long 
evening of hard work, heard his footstep on the stairs, 
and thought with sorrow that he had not mended his 
old bad ways. He heard him open the door, and then 
a long wild shriek, followed by the sound of some one 
falling, rang through the buildings. 

In an instant Lillyston had darted upstairs, and the 
other men who “ kept ” on the staircase jumped out of 
bed hastily, thrust on their slippers, and also ran out 
to see what was the matter. As Lillyston reached the 
threshold of Ilazlet’s rooms, he stumbled against some- 
thing, and stooping down found that it was the sense- 
less body of Ilazlet himself stretched at full length 
upon the floor. 

He looked up, but saw nothing to explain the 
mystery; the rooms were in darkness, except that a 
dull, blue flame, flickering over the black and red relics 
of the fire, threw fantastic gleams across the furniture 
and ceiling, and gave an odd, wild appearance to the 
cap and gown that hung beside the door. 

Lillyston was filled with surprise, and lit the candle 
on the table. Lifting ITazlet on the sofn, he carefully 
looked at him to see if he was correct in his first sur- 


260 


JULIAN HOME. 


raise, that the unhappy man had swallowed poison, or 
committed suicide in some other way. But there was 
no trace of anything of the kind, and Ilazlet merely 
appeared to have fainted and fallen suddenly. 

Aided by Noel, one of those who had been alarmed 
by that piercing shriek, Lillyston took the proper 
means to revive Ilazlet from his fainting fit, and put 
him to bed. He rapidly recovered his consciousness, 
but earnestly begged them not to press him on the 
subject of his alarm, respecting which he was unable 
or unwilling to give them any information. 

The next morning he was very ill ; excitement and 
anxiety brought on a brain fever, which kept him for 
many weary weeks in his sick-room, and from which 
he had not fully recovered until after a long stay at 
Ildown. As he lost in consequence of this attack the 
whole of the ensuing term, he was obliged to degrade, 
as it is called — i.e., to place his name on the list of the . 
year below ; and he did not return to Camford till the 
following October, where his somewhat, insignificant 
individuality had been almost forgotten. 

Let us anticipate a little to throw light on what we 
have narrated. 

When Ilazlet did come back to undergraduate life, he 
at once sought the alienated friends from whom he had 
been separated ever since the disastrous period ot his 
acquaintanceship with Bruce. lie came back to them 
penitent and humble, with those convictions now ex- 
isting in his mind in their reality and genuineness 
which before he had only simulated so successfully as 
to deceive himself. I will not say that he did not con- 
tinue ignorant and bigoted, but he was no longer con- 
ceited and malicious. I will not say that he never 
showed himself dogmatic and ill-informed, but he was 
no longer obtrusive and uncharitable. Iiis life was 
better than his dogmas, and the sincerity of his good 
intentions counteracted and nullified the ill effects of 
a narrow and unwholesome creed. There were no 
further inconsistencies in his conduct, and he showed 
firmly, yet modestly, the line he meant to follow, and 
the side he meant to take. As his. conscience liad be- - 


JULIAN HOME. 


261 


come scrupulous, and his life irreproachable, it mattered 
comparatively little that his intellectual character was 
tainted with fanaticism and gloom. 

I would not be mistaken to mean that he found his 
penitence easy, or that he was, like St. Paul, trans- 
formed as it were by a lightning flash — “ a fusile Chris- 
tian.” I say, there were — after his two sicknesses and 
long suffering, and experiences bitter as wormwood — 
there were, I say, no more outward inconsistencies in 
his life ; but I do not say that within there were no 
fierce, fearful struggles, so wearisome at times that it 
almost seemed better to yield than to feel the continued 
anguish of such mighty temptations. All this the man 
must always go through who has warmed in his bosom 
the viper whose poisoned fang has sent infection into 
his blood. But through God’s grace Hazlet was victo- 
rious : and as, when the civilization of some infant col- 
ony is advancing on the confines of a desert, the wild 
beasts retire before it, until they become rare, and their 
howling is only heard in the lonely night, and then 
even that sign of their fury is but a strange occurrence, 
until it is heard no more; so in Hazlet the many- 
headed monsters, which breed in the slime of a fallen 
human heart, were one by one slain or driven back- 
wards by watchfulness, and shame, and prayer. 

Julian and Lillyston had never shunned his society, 
either when he breathed the odor of sanctity or when 
he sank into the slough of wretchlessness. Both of 
them were sufficiently conscious of the heart’s weakness 
to prevent them from the cold and melancholy pre- 
sumption which leads weak and sinful men to desert 
and denounce those whom the good spirits have not yet 
deserted, and whom the good God has not finally con- 
demned. As long as he sought their society they were 
always open to his company, however distasteful ; 
and the advice they gave him was tendered in simple 
good-will — not as though from the haughty vantage- 
ground of a superior excellence. Even when Hazlet 
was at. the worst — when to be seen with him, after .the 
publicity of his vices, involved something like a slur on 
a man’s fair name— even in these his worst days neither 


262 


JULIAN HOME. 


Julian nor Lillyston would have refused, had he so 
desired it, to walk with him under the lime-tree avenue, 
or up and down the cloisters of Warwick’s Court. 

But they naturally met him more often when his 
manner of life was changed for the better, and were 
both glad to see that he had found the jewel which 
adversity possessed. It happened that he was with 
them one evening when the conversation turned on 
supernatural appearances, the possibility of which was 
maintained by Julian and Owen, while Lillyston in his 
genial way was pooh-poohing them altogether. Ilazlet 
alone sat silent, but at last he said — 

“I have never yet mentioned to any living soul 
what once happened to me, but I will do so now. 
Lillyston, you remember the night when I aroused you 
with a scream ?” 

“ Well ! ” said Lillyston. 

“ That night I was returning in all the bitterness of 
remorse from places where, but for God’s blessing, I 
might have perished utterly ” — and Ilazlet shuddered 
— “ when from out of the storm and darkness I reached 
my room door. You know that a beam ran right 
across my ceiling. When I threw open the door to 
enter I saw on that beam as clearly as I now see you — 
no, more clearly, far more clearly than I now see you, 
for your presence makes no special impression on me, 
and this was burnt into my very brain — I saw there 
written in letters of fire— no, I will not tell you what 
I seemed to read there.— Struck dumb with* horror, I 
stared at it; there could be no doubt about it, the 
letters burned and glared and reddened before my 
very eyes, and seemed to wave like the northern lights, 
and bicker into angrier flame as I looked at them. 
They fascinated me as I stood there dumb and stupe- 
fied, when suddenly T saw the dark and massive form 
of a hand, over which hung the skirt of a black robe, 
moving slowly away from the last letter. What more 
I might have seen 1 cannot tell it was then that I 
fell and fainted, and my shriek startled all the men on 
the staircase.” 

Hazlet told his story with such deep solemnity, and 


JULIAN HOME . 263 

such hollow pauses of emotion, that the listeners sat 
silent for a while. 

“ But yet,” said Lillyston, “ if you come to analyze 
this, it resolves itself into nothing. You were confess- 
edly agitated, and almost hysterical that night; your 
body was unstrung; you were wet through, and it 
was doubtless the sudden passage from the darkness 
outside to the dim and uncertain glimmer of your own 
room which acted so powerfully on your excited im- 
agination as to project your inward thoughts into a 
shape which you mistook for an external appearance. I 
remember noticing the aspect of your rooms myself 
that evening ; the mysterious shadows, and the mingled 
effects of dull red firelight with black objects, together 
with the rustle of the red curtain in front of your 
window which you had left open, and the weird waving 
of your black gown in the draught, made such an im- 
pression even on me, merely in consequence of the 
alarm your shriek had excited, that I could have 
fancied anything myself, if I wasn’t pretty strong- 
headed, and rather prosaic. As it was, I did half 
fancy an unknown Presence in the room.” 

“Yes, but you say inward thoughts,” replied Hazlet 
eagerly ; “now these vierenH my inward thoughts ; on 
the contrary, they flashed on me like a revelation. I 
have said that I cannot prevail on myself to tell you 
what seemed to me to be written there; but it was 
something of which I had never dreamed before, and it 
revealed to me for the first time that the state of sinful- 
ness is the hell of sin. It was only the other day that 
I came across those lines of Milton — oh, how true they 
are — 


‘ Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell, 

And in the lowest deep a lower deep 
Still gaping to devour me opens wide, 

To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.’ 

It was the truth conveyed in those lines which I 
then first discovered, and discovered, it seems to me, 
from without. I know very, very little — I am shame- 
fully ignorant ; but I do think that the vision of that 


264 


JULIAN HOME. 


night taught me more than a thousand volumes of 
scholastic theology. And let me say too,” he continued 
humbly, “ that by it I was plucked like a brand from 
the burning ; by it my conversion was brought about.” 

None of the others were in a mood to criticise the 
phraseology of Ilazlet’s religious convictions, and he 
clearly desired that the subject of his own immediate 
experiences, as being one full of awfulness for him, 
might be dropped. 

“ Apropos of your argument, I care very little, 
Hugh,” said Julian, “ whether you make supernatural 
appearances objective or subjective. I mean I don’t 
care whether you regard the appearance as a mere 
deception of the eye, wrought by the disordered work- 
ings of the brain, or as the actual presence of a super- 
natural phenomenon. The result, the effect, the reality 
of the appearance is just the same in either case. 
Whether the end is produced by an illusion of the 
senses or an appeal to them, the end is produced, and 
the senses are impressed by something which is not in 
the ordinary course of human events, just as power- 
fully as if the ghost had flesh and blood, or the voice 
were a veritable pulsation of articulated air. The only 
thing that annoys me is a contemptuous and super- 
cilious denial of the facts.” 

“I hold with you, Julian,” said Owen. “Take for 
instance, the innumerable recorded instances where 
intimation has been given of a friend’s or relative’s 
death by the simultaneous appearance of his image to 
some one far absent, and unconscious even of his ill- 
ness. There are four ways of treating such stories : 
the first is to deny their truth, which is, to say the 
least, not only grossly uncharitable, but an absurd and 
impertinent caprice adopted in order to reject un- 
pleasant evidence ; the second is to account for them 
by an optical delusion accidentally synchronizing with 
the event, which seems to me a most monstrous ignor- 
ing of the law of chances ; a third is to account for 
them by the existence of some exquisite faculty (exist- 
ing in different degrees of intensity, and in some people 
not existing at all), whereby physical impressions are 


JULIAN HOME. 


265 


invisibly conveyed by some mysterious sympathy of 
organization — a faculty of which it seems to me there 
are the most abundant traces, however much it may 
be sneered and jeered at by those shallow philosophers 
who believe nothing but what they can grasp with both 
hands ; and a fourth is to suppose that spirits can, of 
their own will, or by superior permission, make them- 
selves sometimes visible to human eyes.” 

“ Or,” said Julian, “ so affect the senses as to pro- 
duce the impression that they are present to human 
eyes.” 

“ And to show you, Lillyston,” said Owen, “ how 
little I fear any natural explanations, and how much I 
think them beside the point, I’ll tell you what hap- 
pened to me only the other night, and which yet does 
not make me at all inclined to rationalize Hazlet’s 
story any more than I should feel inclined to ration- 
alize or deny the famous story which Dr. Doddridge 
tells in liis life of Colonel Gardiner. I had just put 
out the candle in my bedroom, when over my head I 
saw a handwriting on the wall in characters of light, 
I started out of bed, and for a moment fancied that I 
Could read the words, and that somebody had been 
playing me a trick with phosphorus. But the next 
minute I saw how it was ; the moonlight was shining 
in through the little muslin folds of the lower blind, 
and as the folds were very symmetrical, the chequered 
reflection on the wall looked exactly like a series of 
words.” 

“ Well, now, that would have made a capital ghost 
story,” said Lillyston, “if you had been a little more 
imaginative and nervous. And still more if the illu- 
sion had only been partially optical, and partly the 
result of excited feelings.” 

“It matters nothing to me,” said Ilazlet, rising, 
“ whether the characters I saw were written by the 
fingers of a man’s hand, or limned by spirits on the 
sensorium of the brain. All I know is that — thank 
God — they were there” 



CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH. 

JULIAN AND KENNEDY. 

“ But there where I have garnered up my heart, 

Where either I must live, or bear no life ; 

The fountain from -the which my current runs 
Or else dries up ; to be discarded thence ! 

Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim ! 

Aye there, look grim as hell ! ” 

Othello, Act iv. sc. 2. 

St. Werner’s clock, with “its male and female 
voice,” has just told the university that it is nine 
o’clock. 

A little crowd of St. Wernerians is standing before 
the chapel door, and even the grass of the lawn in front 
of it is hardly sacred to-day from common feet. The 
throng, composed of undergraduates, dons, bedmakers, 
and gyps, is broken into knots of people, who are chat- 
ting together according to their several kinds; but 
they are so quiet and expectant that the very pigeons 
hardly notice them, but flutter about and coo and peck 
up the scattered breadcrumbs, just as if nobody was 
there. If you look attentively round the court you 
will see, too, that many of the windows are open, and 
you may detect faces half-concealed among the window 
curtains. Clearly everybody is on the lookout for 
something, though it is yet vacation-time, and only a 
small section of the men are up. 

The door opens, and out sail the seniors, more than 
ever conscious of pride and power ; they stream away 
in silk gowns, carrying on their faces the smile of 
knowledge even into their isolation, where no one can 
266 




JULIAN HOME. 267 

see it. It is m the chapel that they always meet to 
elect the St. Werner’s scholars. 

And now the much talked-of, much thought-of, 
anxiously-expected list, which is to make so many 
happy or miserable, is to be announced. On that little 
bit of paper which the chapel-clerk holds in his hands 
as lie stands on the chapel-steps are the names which 
everybody has been longing to conjecture. He comes 
out and reads. There are nine scholarships vacant, of 
which five will be given to the third-year men, and 
four to Julian’s year. 

The five third-year men are read first, and as each 
name is announced, off darts some messenger from the 
crowd to carry the happy intelligence to some expect- 
ant senior soph. The heads of listeners lean farther 
and farther out of the window, for the clerk speaks so 
loud as to make his voice heard right across the court; 
and the wires of the telegraph are instantly put into 
requisition to flash the news to many homes, which it 
will fill either with rejoicing or with sorrow. 

And now for the four second-year scholars, who 
have gained the honor of a scholarship their first time 
of trial, and whose success excites a still keener inter- 
est. They are read out in the accidental order of the 
first entering of their names in the college books. 

Silence! the second-year scholars are — 

Dudley Charles Owen (for the names are 
always read out at full length, Christian 
names and all) ; 

Julian Home ; 

Albert Henry Suton ; 

and it is a very astonishing fact, but the fourth is 
Hugh James Lillyston. 

Who would have believed it? Everybody expected 
Owen and Home to get scholarships their first time, 
and Suton was considered fairly safe of one; but that 
Kennedy should not have got one, and that Lillyston 
should, were facts perfectly amazing to all who heard 
them. St. Werner’s was full of surprise. But. after 
all they might have expected it; Kennedy had been 
grossly idle, and Lillyston, who had been exceedingly 


268 


JULIAN HOME. 


industrious, was not only well-grounded at Harton in 
classics, but had recently developed a real and prom- 
ising proficiency in mathematics; and it was this 
knowledge, joined to great good fortune in the examina- 
tion, which had won for him the much-envied success. 

But not Kennedy ? 

No. This result was enough most seriously to damp 
the intense delight which Julian otherwise felt in his 
own success, and that of his three friends. 

Julian, half-expecting that he would be successful, 
had come up with Owen early in the day, and received 
the news from the porter as he entered the college. 
Kennedy and Lillyston were not yet arrived, and 
Julian went to meet the coach from Roysley, hoping 
to see one of them at least ; for he was almost as anxi- 
ous to break the disappointment gently to Kennedy as 
he was to be the first to bear to his oldest school friend 
the surprising and delightful news of his success. 

They were both in the coach, and Julian was quite 
puzzled how to meet them. Ilis vexation and delight 
alternated so rapidly as he looked from one to the 
other that he felt exceedingly awkward, and waul'd 
very much have preferred seeing either of them alone. 
Lillyston was incredulous ; he insisted that there must 
be some mistake, until he actually saw the list with 
his own eyes. It was quite by accident, and not with 
any view of being sworn in as a scholar the next morn- 
ing, that he had returned to St. Werner’s on that day 
at all. Kennedy bore the bitter but not unexpected 
disappointment with silent stoicism, and showed an 
unaffected joy at the happy result which had crowned 
the honest exertion^ of his best-loved friends. 

He bore it in stoical silence, until he reached his 
own rooms; and then, do not blame him — poor 
Kennedy — if he bowed his head upon his hands with 
a feeling of deep distress. There are times when the 
bravest man feels quite like a boy — feels as if lie were 
unchanged since the day when he sorrowed for boyish 
trespasses, and was chidden for boyish faults. Ken- 
nedy was very young, and he was eating the fruits of 
folly and idleness in painful failure and hope deferred. 


JULIAN HOME. 


269 


In public lie never showed the faintest signs of vexa- 
tion, but in the loneliness of his closet he did not care 
to suppress the grief which he felt — for Violet’s sake 
as well as for his own. 

So once more he was separated from Julian and 
Lillyston in hall and chapel, for they now sat at the 
scholars’ table and in the scholars’ seats. 

He was beginning to get over his feeling of sorrow 
when he received a letter which did not need the 
coronet on the seal to show him that his correspondent 
was De Vayne. He opened it with eagerness and 
curiosity, and read— 

“ Eaglestower, April 30, 18 — . Argyleshire. 

, “My Dear Kennedy— How long it is since we saw 
or heard of each other ! I am getting well now, slowly 
but' surely, and as I am amusing my leisure by reviv- 
ing my old correspondence with my friends, let me 
write to you whom I reckon and shall ever reckon 
among that honored number. 

“ I am afraid that you considered me to have been 
slightly alienated from you by the sad scene which 
your rooms witnessed when last we met in health, and 
by the connection into which your named was dragged, 
by popular rumor, with that unhappy affair. If such 
a thought has ever troubled you, let me pray that you 
will banish it. I have long since been sure that you 
would have been ready to suffer any calamity rather 
than expose me to the foreseen possibility of such an 
outrage. 

“ No, believe me, dear Kennedy, I am as much now 
as I always have been since I knew you, your sincere 
and affectionate friend. Nor will I conceal how deep 
an interest another circumstance has given me in your 
welfare. You perhaps did not know that I too loved 
your affianced Violet; how long, how deeply, I can 
never utter to any living soul. I did not know that 
you had won her affections, and the information that 
such was the case came on me like the death-knell of 
all my cherished hopes. But I have schooled myself 
pow to. the qahn., contemplation of my failure, ap4 t 


270 


JULIAN HOME. 


can rejoice without envy in the knowledge that in you 
she has won a lover richly endowed with all the quali- 
ties on which future happiness can depend. 

“ I write to you partly to say good-bye. In a fort- 
night I am going abroad, and shall not return until I 
feel that I have conquered a hopeless passion, and re- 
gained a shattered health. Farewell to dear old Cam- 
ford ! I little thought that my career there would ter- 
minate as it did, but I trust in the full persuasion that 
God worketh all things for good to them who love Ilim. 

“ Once more good-bye. When I return, I hope that 
I shall see leaning on your arm a fair young bride.— 
Ever affectionately yours, De Vayne.” 

Kennedy had written home to announce that his 
name was not to be found in the list of St. Werner’s 
scholars. The information had disgusted his father 
exceedingly. Mr. Kennedy, himself an old Werner- 
ian, loved that royal foundation with an unchanging 
regard, and ever since the day that Edward had been 
playing in his hall a pretty boy he determined that he 
should be a St. Werner’s scholar at his first trial. He 
knew his son’s abilities, and felt convinced that there 
must be some radical fault in his Camford life to pro- 
duce such a disastrous series of failures and disgraces. 
Unable to gain any real information on the subject 
from Edward’s letters, he determined to write up at 
once, and ask the classical and mathematical tutors 
the points in which his son was most deficient, and the 
reason of his continued want of success. 

The classical tutor, Mr. Dalton, wrote back that 
Kennedy’s failure was due solely to idleness ; that his 
abilities were acknowledged to be brilliant, but that 
at Camford, as everywhere else, the notion of success 
without industry was a chimera invented by boastful- 
ness and conceit. “Le Genie c’est la Patience.” 

“You seem, however,” continued Mr. Dalton, “ to 
be under the mistaken impression that your son read 
with me last term, and even ‘ read double.’ This is 
not the case, as he has ceased to read with me since 
the end of the Christinas term : I was sorry that he 


JULIAN HOME . 


271 


did so ; for if economy was an object, I would gladly, 
merely for the sake of the interest I take in him, have 
afforded gratuitous assistance to so clever and promis- 
ing a pupil.” 

The letter of Mr. Baer, the mathematical tutor, was 
precisely to the same effect. “ I can only speak,” he 
said, “ from what I observed of your son previous to 
last Christmas ; since then I have not had the pleasure 
of numbering him among my pupils.” 

When Mr. Dalton’s letter came Mr. Kennedy was 
exceedingly perplexed to understand what it meant, 
and assumed that there must be some unaccountable 
mistake. He simply could not believe that his son 
could have asked him for the money on false pretences. 
But when Mr. Baer’s letter confirmed the fact that 
Kennedy had not been reading with a tutor either in 
classics or mathematics during the previous quarter, 
it seemed impossible for any one any longer to shut 
his eyes to the truth. 

When the real state of the case forced itself on Mr. 
Kennedy’s conviction his affliction was so deep that 
no language can adequately describe what he suffered. 
In a few days his countenance became sensibly older- 
looking, and his hair more gray. His favorite and only 
surviving son had proved unworthy and base. Not 
only had he wasted time in frivolous company, but 
clearly he must have sunk very low to be guilty of a 
crime so heinous in itself, and so peculiarly wounding 
to a father’s heart, as the one which it was plain that 
he had committed. 

At first Mr. Kennedy could not trust himself to 
write, lest the anger and indignation which usurped 
the place of sorrow should lead him into a violence 
which might produce irreparable harm. Meanwhile, 
he bore in silence the blows which had fallen. Not 
even to his daughter Eva did he reveal the overwhelm- 
ing secret of her brother’s shame, but brooded in lone- 
liness over the fair promise of the past, blighted utterly 
in the disgrace of the present. Often when he had 
looked at his young son, and seen how glorious and 
how happy his life might be, he had determined to 


272 


JULIAN HOME . 


shelter him from all evil, and endow him with means 
and opportunities for every success. He had looked 
to him as a pride and stay in declining manhood, and 
a comfort in old age. JEdward Kennedy had been 
“a child whom every eye that looked on loved,” and 

now he was ; Mr. Kennedy could not apply to him 

the only name which at once sprung up to his lips. 
He wrote — 

“ Dear Edward, — When I tell you that it costs me 
an effort, a strong effort to call you ‘ dear,’ you may 
judge of the depth of my anger. I cannot trust my- 
self, nor will I condescend to say much to you. Suffice 
it for you to know that your shameful transactions 
are detected, and that I am now aware of the means — 
the treacherous, dishonest means — you have adopted 
to procure money, which, since I give you an ample 
and liberal allowance, can only be wanted to pander to 
vice, idleness, and I know not wbat other forms of sin. 

“ I tell you that I do not know what to say ; if you 
can act as you have acted, you must be quite deaf to 
expostulation and dead to shame. You have done all 
you can to cover me and yourself with dishonor, and 
to bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. 

“ O Edward, Edward ! if I could have foreseen this 
in the days when you were yet a young and innocent 
and happy boy, I would have chosen rather that you 
should die. 

“It must be a long time before you see my face 
again. I will not see you in the coming holidays, and 
I at once reduce your allowance to half oiwliat it was. 
I cannot and will not supply money to be wasted in 
extravagance and folly, nor shall I again be deceived 
into granting it to you on false pretences. — Your in- 
dignant, deeply-sorrowing father, 

“ T. Kennedy.” 

Kennedy read the letter, and re-read it, and laid it 
down on the table beside his untouched breakfast. 
There was but one expression in his face, and that wa§ 


JULIAN HOME. 273 

misery, and in his soul no other feeling than that of 
hopeless shame. 

He did not, and could not write to his father ; what 
was to be said? He must bear his burden — the burden 
of detection and of punishment — alone. 

And the thought of Violet added keener poignancy 
to all his grief. For Kennedy could not but observe 
that her letters were not so fondly, passionately loving 
as they once had been, and he knew that the fault was 
his, because his own letters reflected, like a broken 
mirror, the troubled images of his wandering heart. 






CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. 

Kennedy’s despair. 

“ When all the blandishments from life are gone, 

The coward sinks to death ; — the brave live on ! ” 

Of all the sicknesses that can happen to the human 
soul, the deadliest and the most incurable is the feel- 
ing of despair ; and this was the malady which now 
infected every vein of Kennedy’s moral and intellectual 
life. 

Could he but have conquered his pride so far as to 
take but one person into his confidence, all might have 
been well. But Violet — could he ever tell Violet of 
sins which her noble heart must render so inconceiv- 
able as almost to make it impossible for her to sym- 
pathize with one who committed them ? And Eva ; 
could he ever wound the tender affection of his sweet 
sister by revealing to her the disgrace of the brother 
whom, from her childhood, she had idolized? He 
sometimes thought that he would confess to Julian or 
Lillyston ; but his courage failed him when the time 
came, and he fed on his own heart in solitude, avoiding 
the society of men. 

The sore burden of a self-reproaching spirit wore 
him down. He had fallen so often now, and swerved 
so often from the path of temperance, rectitude, and 
honor, that he began to regard himself as a hopeless 
reprobate — as one who had been weighed and found 
wanting — tested of God, and deliberately set aside. 

And so step by step the devil thrust him into des- 
peration, and strove thereby to clinch the hopelessness 
of his estate. With wild fierce passion Kennedy flung 
274 



JULIAN HOME. 


275 


himself into sins lie had never known before ; angrily 
he laid waste the beauty and glory of the vineyard 
whose hedge had been broken down ; a little entrance 
to the sanctuary had been opened to evil thoughts, and 
they, when once admitted, soon flung back wider and 
wider the golden gates, till the revelling band of worse 
wickednesses rushed in and defiled the altar, and 
trampled on the virgin floors, and defaced the cedarn 
walls with images of idolatry and picturings of sin. 
Because he had sunk into the slough of despond, he 
would be heedless of the mud that gathered on his 
garments. Was he not ruined already? could any- 
thing much worse befall him than had befallen him 
already ? no ; he would sin on now and take his fill. 

It was a short period of his life ; but in no other 
period did he suffer so much, or shake more fatally 
the foundations of all future happiness. It was em- 
phatically a sin against his own soul, and as such it 
affected his very look. Those blue laughing eyes were 
clouded over, and the bloom died away from his cheeks, 
and the ingenuous beauty from his countenance, as the 
light of the Shechinah grew pale and dim in the inmost 
sanctuary. Kennedy was not mastered by impulse, 
but driven by despair. 

Nor did he take any precaution to shield himself 
from punishment — the punishment of outward circum- 
stance and natural consequence — as his moral abase- 
ment proceeded. His acquaintances shunned him, his 
friends dropped away from him, and the guiltiness of 
the present received a tinge of deeper horror from 
the gloom of the future. 

All that could be done, Julian did. He warned, he 
expostulated, he reminded of purer and happier — of 
pure and happy days. But he did not know the bitter 
fountain of despondency whence flowed those naphtha- 
line streams of passion. At last he said — 

“ Kennedy, I have not often spoken to you of my 
dear sister; it is time to speak of her now. Your 
conduct proves to me that you do not and cannot love 
her.” 

Kennedy listened in silence ; his face bowed down 


27G 


JULIAN HOME. 


upon his hands. “ You could not go on as you are 
doing if you loved her, for love allows no meaner, no 
unhallowed fires to pollute her vestal flame. Your love 
must be a pretence — a thing of the past. It was only 
possible, Kennedy, when you were worthier than now 
you are.” 

lie groaned deeply, but still said nothing. 

“ Kennedy,” continued Julian, “ I have loved you 
as a friend, as a brother; I love you still most ear- 
nestly, and you must not be too much pained at what I 
say ; but I have come to a determination which I must 
teil you, and by which I must abide. Your engage- 
ment with Violet must cease.” 

w Does she say so ? ” he asked in a hollow voice. 

“ No, she does not know, Kennedy, what I know of 
you ; but she will trust my deep affection, and know 
that I act solely for her good. The blow may almost 
kill her, but better that she should die than that her 
life should be ever connected — Oh that you should 
have driven me to say it — with one so stained as 
yours ! ” 

“ Ay ! ” said Kennedy bitterly, “ stab hard, for the 
knife is in your hand. Fling dust on those who are 
down already — it is the world’s way. I see through it 
all, Julian Home; you would gladly get rid of me, that 
Violet may wear a coronet. No comparison between a 
penniless and ruined undergraduate, and a handsome, 
rich young viscount.” 

“Unjust! ungenerous!” answered Julian with in- 
dignation ; “ you have poisoned your own true heart, 
Kennedy, or you would not utter the lie which you 
must disbelieve. Edward Kennedy, I will not attempt 
to rebut your unworthy suspicions ; you know neither 
my character nor Violet’s or you would not have dared 
to utter them. No — it is clearer to me than ever that 
you are no fit suitor for my sister. Passion and weak- 
ness have dragged you very low. I trust and pray 
that you may recover yourself again.” 

A sudden rush of tears came to his eyes as he turned 
away to leave his earliest and best-loved college friend. 
But Kennedy stopped him, and said wildly — 


JULIAN HOME. 


277 


“Stop, Julian Home, you shall hear me speak. I 
can hardly believe that you do this of your own re- 
sponsibility — without Violet’s — nay, nay, I must not 
call her so — without your sister’s consent. And if this 
be so, hear me. Tell her that I did not think that she 
too would fail me in the hour of my humiliation : tell 
her that she has commited a great sin in thus rejecting 
me: tell her that she is now responsible for all my 
future, — that whatever errors I may fall into, what- 
ever sins I may commit, whatever disgrace or ruin I 
may incur, she is the author of them. Tell her that if 
I ever live to do ungenerous acts, or ever yield to bursts 
of foolish passion, the acts are hers, not mine ; she will 
have caused them ; my life lies at her feet. Tell her 
this before it is too late. What? you still wish to 
hurry away ? go then.” He almost pushed Julian out 
and banged the door after him. 

Amazed at his paroxysm of wrath and madness, 
Julian went downstairs with a slow step and a heavy, 
heavy heart; above all he dreaded the necessity of 
breaking to Violet the heartrending intelligence of his 
decision, and the circumstances which caused it. He 
trembled to do it, for he knew not how crushing the 
weight might prove. At last he determined to write 
to his mother, and to beg her to bear for him the pain 
of telling that which her womanly tact and maternal 
sympathy might make less overwhelming to be borne. 

But Kennedy, after Julian’s words, rushed out of 
his rooms, and it was night. He left the college, and 
wandered into the fields — he knew not whither, nor 
with what intent. His brain was on fire. The last 
gleam that lent brightness to his life had been extin- 
guished ; the friend whom he loved best had cast him 
off; his name was sullied; his love rejected. It was 
not thought which kept him in a tumult, but only a 
physical consciousness of dreadful, irremediable calam- 
ity ; and but for the wind which blew so coldly and 
savagely in his face, and the rain that soaked his 
clothes and cooled the fever of his forehead, he feared 
that he might go mad. 

He did not return to the college till long past mid- 


278 


JULIAN HOME. 


night ; and the old porter, as he got out of bed to open 
the gate, could not help saying to him in a tone of 
reproach — 

“O, Mr. Kennedy, sir — excuse me, sir — but these 
are bad ways.” 

The words were lost upon him : he went up to his 
room, and threw himself, without taking off his clothes, 
upon his bed. No sleep came to him, and in the 
morning— damp, weary, and feverish as he had been — 
his look was inexpressibly pitiable and haggard. 

The imperious demands of health forced him to take 
some notice of his condition ; and he was about to put 
on clean clothes, and take some warm tea about ten in 
the morning, when the Master’s servant came to tell 
him that the Seniority desired his presence. 

He at once knew that it must be for his irregularity 
of the previous night, which, in the agitation of other 
thoughts, had not occurred to him before. He remem- 
bered, too, that the Senior Dean had only recently 
threatened him that, in consequence of his late mis- 
doings, the next offence would be visited with sum- 
mary and final punishment. 

Kennedy received rather hard treatment at the 
hand of the Senior Dean, who was a very worthy and 
excellent man, but so firm and punctilious that he could 
neither conceive nor tolerate the existence of beings 
less precise in their nature than himself. Kind and 
well-intentioned, he was utterly unfit for the guidance 
of young men, because he was totally deficient in those 
invaluable qualities — sympathy and tact. He had early 
taken a dislike to Kennedy, in consequence of some 
very harmless frivolities of his freshman’s year. Ken- 
nedy, in his frolicsome and happy moods, had, in ways 
childish, perhaps, but completely harmless, offended the 
sensitive dignity of the college official, and these trivial 
eccentricities the Dean regarded as heinous faults — the 
symptoms of a reckless and irreverent character. There 
was one particular transaction which gave him more 
than usual offence, in which Kennedy, hearing a very 
absurd story at a don’s party while the Dean was pres- 
ent, parodied it with such exquisite humor and such 


JULIAN HOME. 


279 


complete command of countenance, that all the other 
men, in spite of the official presence, had indecorously 
broken into fits of laughter. It is a great pity when 
rulers and teachers take such terrible fright at little 
outbreaks of mere animal and boyish spirits. 

The Dean was inclined, therefore, from the first to 
take the most serious view of Kennedy’s proceedings, 
even when they were not as questionable as recently 
they had been. Instead of trying to enter into a young 
man’s feelings and temptations with consideration and 
forbearance, the Dean regarded them from a moral 
watchtower of unapproachable altitude, and hence 
to him the errors which he was sometimes obliged to 
punish were not regarded as human failings, but as 
monstrous and inexplicable phenomena. He could not 
in the least understand Kennedy ; he only looked at 
him as a wild, and objectionable, and irregular young 
man ; while Kennedy reciprocated his pity by a hardly- 
concealed contempt. 

So, as Kennedy took cap and gown, and walked 
across the court to the combination-room, he became 
pretty well aware that a very heavy sentence was 
hanging over his head. He cared little for it ; nothing 
that St. Werner’s or its authorities could do would 
wound him half so deeply as what he was already suf- 
fering, or cause the iron to rankle more painfully in 
his soul. He felt as a man who is in a dream. 

He stood before them with a look of utter vacancy 
and listlessness, the result partly of physical weari- 
ness, partly of complete indifference. He was aware 
that the Dean, undisturbed this time, was haranguing 
him to his heart’s content, but he had very little no- 
tion of what he was saying. At last his ear caught 
the question — “ Have you any explanation to offer of 
your conduct, Mr. Kennedy?” 

He betrayed how little he had been attending by 
the reply— “ What conduct, sir?” 

The Dean ruffled his plumage, and said with asperity 

— “ Your conduct last night, sir.” 

“I was wandering in the fields, sir.” 

“ Wandering in the fields ! ” In the Dean’s formal 


280 


JULIAN HOME. 


and regular mind such a proceeding was wholly unin- 
telligible ; fancy a sensible member of a college wan- 
dering in the fields on a wet stormy night past twelve 
o’clock ! “ Really, Mr. Kennedy, you must excuse us, 

but we can hardly accept so fantastic an explanation ; 
we can hardly believe that you had no ulterior designs.” 

Kennedy was bothered and fretful ; he was not think- 
ing of deans or seniors just then ; his thoughts were 
reverting to his father’s implacable anger, and to 
Julian’s forbidding him to hope for the love of Violet 
Home. Weary of the talking and careless of explain- 
ing anything to them, and with a short return of his 
old contempt, he wished to cut short the discussion, 
and merely said — 

“ I can’t help what you accept or what you believe.” 

The seniors had a little discussion among themselves, 
in which the opinion of Mr. Norton appeared to be 
overborne by the majority of votes, and then the Senior 
Dean said shortly — 

“Mr. Kennedy, we have come to the decision that 
it is undesirable for you to remain at St. Werner’s at 
present, until you have mended your ways, and taken 
a different view of the duties and responsibilities of 
college life. You are rusticated for a year. You must 
leave to-morrow.” 

Kennedy bowed and left the room. He, too, had 
been coming to a decision, and one that rendered all 
minor ones a matter of no consequence to him. Dur- 
ing all the wet, and feverish, and sleepless night he 
had been determining what to do, and the event of this 
morning confirmed him still farther. lie was rusti- 
cated for a year; where could he go? Not to his 
father and his home, where every eye would look on 
him as a disgraced and characterless man ; not to any 
of his relations or friends, who would regard him 
perhaps as a shame and burden ; — no, there was but 
one home for him, and that was the long home, undis- 
turbed beneath the covering of the grave. 

The burden and mystery of life lay heavily on him 
— its lasting calamities and vanishing joys, its trials 
and disappointments. He would try whether, in a new 


JULIAN HOME. 


281 


state of life, the same distorted individuality was a 
necessary possession. Would it be necessary there 
also to live two lives in one, to have a soul within 
whose precincts curse wrestled with blessing, good with 
evil, and life with death ? As life went with him then, 
he would rather escape from it even into annihilation ; 
he groaned under it, and in spite of all he had heard 
or read, he had no fear whatever of the after-death. 
If he had any feeling about that , it was a feeling of 
curiosity alone. He could not wholly condemn him- 
self : he felt that however much evil might have mas- 
tered him, good was the truest and most distinctive 
element of his being. lie loved it even when he aban- 
doned it, and yielded himself to sin. He could not 
believe that for these frailties he would be driven into 
an existence of unmitigated pain. 

He had no fear, no shadow of fear, of the state of 
death, for he forgot that he would carry himself, his 
unchanged being — Conscience, Habit, and Memory — 
into the other world. What he dreaded was the spasm 
of dying — the convulsion that was to snap the thousand 
silver strings in the harp of life. This he shuddered 
at, but he consoled himself that it would be over in a 
moment. 

He took no food that day, but wrote to his father, 
to Eva, to Julian, Violet, and De Vayne. He told 
them his purpose, and prayed their forgiveness for all 
the wrongs he had done them. And then there seemed 
no more to do. With weak unsteady steps he paced 
his room, and looked at the old Swiss chamois-gun 
above the door. He took it down and handled it. It 
was a coarse clumsy weapon, and he could not trust it 
to effect his purpose. Shunning observation, he walked 
by back streets and passages until he came to a gun- 
smith’s shop, where he bought a large pistol, under 
pretence of wanting it for the purposes of travel. 

He carried it home himself, but instead of returning 
straight to his rooms, he was tempted to stroll for a 
last time about the grounds. The delightful softness 
of the darkening air on that spring evening, and the 
cheerful gleam of lamps leaping up here and there 


282 


JULIAN HOME. 


between the trees, and flickering on the quiet river, 
enticed him up the glorious old entwined avenue into 
the shadow of the great oaks beyond, until he found 
himself leaning between the weeping willows over the 
bridge of Merham Hall, looking on the still gray poetic 
towers, and the three motionless reposing swans, and 
the gloaming of the west. And so, still thinking, 
thinking, thinking, he slowly wandered home. 

As he had determined to commit suicide that night, it 
mattered little to him at what hour it was done, and 
opening the first book on the table, he tried to kill time 
until it grew later and darker. The book happened 
to be a Bible, and conscious how much it jarred with 
his present frame of mind and his guilty purpose, he 
threw it down again ; but not until his eye had caught 
the words — 

“And he saw the angel of the Loed standing in 

THE WAY.” 

The verse haunted him against his will, till he half- 
shuddered at the dim light which the moon made, as 
it struggled through the curtains only partially drawn 
into the quaint old room. He would delay no longer, 
and loaded the pistol with a dreadful charge, which 
should not fail of carrying death. 

Some fancy seized him to put out the lights, and 
then with a violent throbbing at the heart, and a wild 
prayer for God’s mercy at that terrible hour, he took 
the pistol in his hand. 

At that very instant, — when there was hardly the 
motion of a liair’s-breadth between him and fate, — 
what was it that startled his attention, and caused his 
hand to drop, and fixed him there with open mouth and 
wild gaze, and caused him to shiver like the leaves 
of the acacia in a summer wind? 

Right before him — half-hidden by the window cur- 
tains, and halt drawing them back,— clear and distinct 
he thought that he saw a beloved figure, and that sad 
reproachful eyes were gazing upon him. The . counte- 
nance so sorrowfully beautiful, the long bright gleam- 
ing of the white robe, the tresses floating down over 
the shoulders like a golden veil, for one instant they 


JULIAN HOME. 


283 


seemed to flash upon him, not dim and shadowy like 
the fading outlines of a dream, but with all the marked 
full character of living vision. 

“ O mother, mother ! ” he whispered, as he stretched 
out his hands, and sank trembling upon his knees, and 
bowed his head ; but as he raised his head again, there 
was nothing there ; only the glimmer of lamps about the 
court, and the pale moonlight streaming through the 
curtains, partly drawn, into the quaint old room. He 
knew that his overwrought fancy had summoned up 
the vision which now mastered his will. 

Unable to trust himself with the murderous weapon 
in his hand even for a moment, yet swept from his evil 
purpose by the violent reflux of new and better thoughts, 
he fired the pistol into the air. The barrel, enormously 
overloaded, burst in the discharge, and uttering a cry, 
he fell fainting, with his right hand shattered, to the 
ground. 

His cry and the loud report of the explosion raised 
the alarm, and as the men rushed up and forced open 
the door of his room, they found him weltering in his 
blood upon the floor. 




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. 

EYA ENTERS THE CHAPEL. 

I took it for a faery vision 

Of some bright creatures of the element, 

That in the colors of the rainbow live 

And play i ! the plighted clouds ; I was awe-struck. 

And, as I passed, I worshipped, 

Comus. 

The long, long illness that followed, and the weary- 
time which it took to heal the mutilated hand, proved 
the greatest blessings that could have befallen the 
weak and erring heart of Edward Kennedy. They 
spared him the necessity of that heart-rending meet- 
ing with those whom he best loved, the dread of which 
had been the most powerful incitement to urge upon 
him the thought of suicide. They gave him time to 
look before and after — they relieved the painful tension 
of his overwrought mind — they calmed him with the 
necessity for quiet thought and deep rest after the 
anguish and turmoil of the bygone months. 

When he awoke to consciousness Eva was sitting 
by his bedside in the sick room. Slowly the well- 
remembered objects and the beloved face broke upon 
his recollection, but at first he could remember noth- 
ing more, nor connect the strange present with the 
excited past. Still more slowly — as when one breaks 
the azure sleep of some unruffled mountain mere by 
the skimming of a stone, and for a long time the clear 
images of blue sky, and wreathing cloud, and green 
mountain-top, are shaken and confused on the tremu- 
lous and twinkling wave, but unite together into the 
old picture when the water has recovered its glassy 
284 




JULIAN HOME. 


285 


smoothness — so still more slowly did Kennedy’s 
troubled memory reflect the incidents (alas ! unbeauti- 
ful and threatening incidents) of the preceding days. 
They came back to him as he lay there quite still ; 
and then he groaned. 

“ Hush ! dearest Edward,” said Eva, who had 
watched his face, and guessed from its expressive 
workings the progress of his thoughts ; “ hush, we are 
with you, and all is going on well. Your hand is 
healing.” 

He found that his right hand was tightly and firmly 
bandaged, and kept still by a splint. 

“ Was it much hurt ? Shall I recover the use of it ? ” 

“Yes, almost certainly, Dr. Leesby says. I will tell 
papa that you are awake.” 

“Is he very, very angry?” asked poor Kennedy. 

“ He has forgiven all, dear,” she said, kissing his 
forehead. “ It was all very dreadful ” — and a cold 
shiver ran over her — “ but none of us will ever allude 
to it again. Banish it from your thoughts, Eddy; we 
will leave Camford as soon as you can be moved.” 

She went to fetch her father, and as he came in 
and leant fondly over his son’s sick-bed, and grasped 
warmly his unwounded hand, tears of afflicting mem- 
ory coursed each other fast down the old man’s cheeks. 
He had been hard, too hard upon Edward ; perhaps his 
severity had driven him of late into such bad courses, 
and to the brink of such an awful and disgraceful end ; 
perhaps if he had been kinder, gentler, more sympa- 
thizing for this first offence, he might have been saved 
the anguish of driving his poor boy to lower and wilder 
depths of sin and sorrow. It was all over now ; and 
amid the apparent wreck of all his hopes, even after 
the death-blows which recent events had dealt to his 
old pride in his noble child, he yet regarded him as he 
lay there — wounded, and in such a way — with all the 
pity of a Christian’s forgiveness, with all the fondness 
of a father’s love. 

“ O father ! I have suffered unspeakably. If God 
ever raises me to health and strength again, I vow with 
all my heart to serve Him as I have never done before.” 


286 


JULIAN HOME. 


“Yes, Edward, I trust and believe it; think no 
more of the past; let the dead bury their dead. The 
golden present is before you, and you will have two 
friends who never desert the brave man — your Maker 
and yourself.” 

A silence followed, and then Eva said, “ I have just 
seen Dr. Leesby, Eddy, and he says that if you are 
now quite yourself, and the light-headedness has ceased, 
you may be moved on Monday.” 

“ And to-day is ? — I have lost all count of time.” 

“ To-day is Saturday. Won’t it be charming, dear, 
to find ourselves once more at home ; quietly at home, 
with no one but ourselves, and our own love to make 
us happy.” 

“ And what am I to do, Eva ? ” 

“ Hush, Eddy ; sufficient for the day ” 

“Does she know, Eva? do you ever hear from her 
now ? ” 

“Yes, often — but do not think too much of those 
things just yet.” 

“ And Julian ? ” 

“He has often come to ask after you,” she said 
blushing ; “ but he is afraid to see you, lest it should 
do you harm just now.” 

“Perhaps he is right. We are not all enemies, 
then? ” 

“Enemies with Julian and Violet? Oh no.” 

Though the engagement of Kennedy with Violet 
had been broken off by the common desire of Julian 
and Mr. Kennedy, the two families still continued their 
affectionate intercourse, and bewailed the sad necessity 
which drove them to a step so painful, yet so unavoid- 
ably required by the welfare of all concerned. And 
from the first they hoped that all might yet be well, 
while some among them began to fancy that if Ken- 
nedy and Violet should ever be united, it would not 
be the only close bond between hearts already full of 
mutual affection. 

So Julian still cam daily during Kennedy’s illness 
to see Eva and Mr. Kennedy, and to inquire after the 
sufferer’s health. And sometimes he took them for a 


JULIAN HOME. 


287 


walk in the grounds or the immediate neighborhood 
of Camford, a place which Eva had never visited be- 
fore, and which to her was full of interest. 

Eva had often heard of the glories of St. Werner’s 
Chapel, and on the Sunday she asked Julian if it would 
be possible for her to go with her father to the evening 
service there. 

“O yes,” said Julian ; “certainly. I will get one of 
the Fellows to take you in. It is a remarkable sight, 
and I think you ought to go.” 

The Sunday evening came, and Julian escorted them 
to the ante-chapel, and showed them the various sculpt- 
ures and memorials of mighty names. They then 
waited by the door till some Fellow whom Julian knew 
should pass into the chapel to escort them to a vacant 
place in the Fellows’ seats. 

St. Werner’s Chapel consists of a single aisle, along 
the floor of which are placed rows of benches for the 
undergraduates ; raised above these to a height of three 
steps are the long seats appropriated to the scholars 
and the Bachelors of Arts; and again, two steps above 
these are the seats of the Fellows and Masters of Arts, 
together with room for such casual strangers as may 
chance to be admitted. In the centre of these long 
rows, on either side, are the places for the choristers, 
men and boys, and the lofty thrones whence the Deans 
“ look down with sleepless eyes upon the world.” By 
the door on either side are the red-curtained and vel- 
vet-cushioned seats of the Master and Vice-master, 
beyond whom sit the noblemen and fellow-commoners. 
By the lectern and reading-desk is a step of black and 
white marble, which extends to the altar, on which 
are two candlesticks of massive silver ; and over them 
some beautiful carved oaken work covers a great paint- 
ing, flanked on either side by old gilded pictures of 
the Saviour and the Madonna. Imagine this space all 
lighted from wall to wall by wax candles, and at the 
end by large lamps which shed a brighter and softer 
light, and imagine it filled, if you can, by five hundred 
men in snowy surplices, and you have a faint fancy of 
the scene which broke on the eyes of Mr. Kennedy and 


288 


JULIAN HOME. 


Eva as they passed between the statues of the ante- 
chapel, and under the pealing organ, into the inner 
sanctuary of St. Werner’s Chapel. 

“ Could they behold — 

Who, less insensible than sodden clay 
In a sea river’s bed at ebb of tide — 

Could have beheld with undelighted heart 
So many happy youths, so wide and fair 
A congregation in its budding-time 
Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at once 
So many divers samples from the growth 
Of life’s sweet season — could have seen unmoved 
That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers, 

Decking the matron temples of a place 
So famous through the world ? ” 

It was Mr. Norton whom Julian caught hold of as an 
escort for his friends into the chapel. It was rather 
late; the organ was playing a grand overture, the men 
were all in their seats, and the service just going to 
begin, when Eva entered leaning on Mr. Norton’s 
arm, and followed by her father and Julian. Many 
of the St. Werner’s men had seen her walking in the 
grounds the last day or two, and as Kennedy’s sister 
a peculiar interest attached to her just then. But she 
needed no such accidental source of interest to attract 
the liveliest attention of such keen and warm enthu- 
siasts for beauty as the Camford undergraduates. 
Ladies are comparatively rare apparitions in that semi- 
monastic body of scholars ; and ladies both young and 
lovely are rare indeed. So as Eva entered, so young 
and so fair, the bright and graceful and beautiful Eva 
— with that exquisite rose-tinge which the air of Orton- 
on-the-Sea had given her, and the folded softness of 
the tresses which flowed down beside her perfect face, 
and the light of beaming eyes seen like jewels under 
her long eyelashes as she bent her glance upon the 
ground — as Eva entered, I say, leaning on Mr. Norton’s 
arm, and touched, with the floating of her pale silk 
dress, the surplices of the St. Werner’s men as they 
sat on either side down the narrow passage, it was no 
wonder that every single eye from that of the Senior 


JULIAN HOME. 


289 


Bean* to that of the little chorister boy, was turned 
upon her for an instant as she passed up to the only 
vacant seats, and Mr. Norton caused room to be made 
for her beside the tutor’s cushion by the chaplain’s 
desk. She was happily unconscious of the admiration, 
and the perfect simplicity of her sweet girlish uncon- 
sciousness added a fresh charm to the whole grace of 
her manner and appearance. Only by the slightest 
possible blush did she show her sense of her unusual 
position as the cynosure for the admiring gaze of five 
hundred English youths; and that, too, though the 
dark and handsome countenance of Mr. Norton glowed 
visibly with a brighter color (as though he were con- 
scious of the thought respecting him which darted 
across many an undergraduate’s mind), and even the 
face of Julian, as he walked to the scholars’ seats 
among the familiar ranks of his compeers, was flushed 
with the crimson of a sensitiveness which he would 
fain have hidden. 

What an evening star she was ! and how her very 
presence filled all hearts with a livelier sense of happi- 
ness and hope, and sweet pure yearnings for wedded 
calm and bridal love ! But she — innocent young Eva 
— little knew of the sensation she had caused by the 
rare beauty of her blossoming womanhood. Her whole 
heart was in the act of worship, except when it 
wandered for a moment to her poor sick Eddy, whom 
they had left alone, or for another moment to one 
whom she could not but see before her in the scholars’ 
seats. She did not know that men were looking at her 
as she raised her clear warbling voice amid the silvery 
trebles of the choir, and uttered with all the expressive- 
ness of genuine emotion those strains of poetry and 
passion which thrilled from the heart to the harp of 
the warrior-prophet and poet -king. And never did 
truer prayers come from a woman’s lips than those 
which her heart offered as her head was bowed that 
night. 

The service was over, and the congregation streamed 
* Pace Decani dixerim ! 


l 9 


290 


JULIAN HOME. 


out. That evening the ante-chapel was fuller than 
usual of men, who stayed nominally to hear the organ ; 
but besides those musical souls, who always linger to 
hear the voluntary, or to talk in little groups, there 
were others who, on that pretence, waited to catch 
another glimpse— a last glimpse of eyes whose deep and 
lovely color had flow'ed into their souls. They were 
disappointed though, for Eva dropped her veil. With 
a graceful bow to Mr. Norton, which he returned with 
courteous dignity, she took Julian’s proffered arm and 
walked out into the court, her father following. A 
proud man was Julian that evening, and the subject of 
kindly envy to not a few. 

But that little incident — the many eyes that had 
seen his treasure — determined Julian to take the step 
which he had long decided upon in his secret heart. 
He was half-jealous of the open, unconcealed admira- 
tion which Eva had excited, and it made him fear lest 
another should approach the object of his love, and 
occupy a place in the heart which he had not even 
demanded as his own. He was positively in a hurry. 
What if some undergraduate should get an introduc- 
tion to Eva — some gay and handsome Adonis — and 
should suddenly carry away her heart? 

So when Mr. Kennedy went into the sick-room to 
read to Edward the lessons for the day, and Julian 
stayed with Eva in the sitting-room, he drew his chair 
beside hers, and they began to talk about St. Wer- 
ner’s. 

After a long talk he said to her, “ Shall I read to you, 
Eva?” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I should like it so much ; I used 
to enjoy so much the poetry we read at Grindelwald.” 

He took down Coleridge’s poems from the shelf, and 
read — 


“ All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 

Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 

Are all but ministers of love, 

And feed his sacred flame.” 

He went on ? watching her color change with the 


JULIAN HOME. 291 

musical variations of his voice, until he came to the 
verse — 


“ I told her how he pined, — and ah ! 

The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
In which I sang another’s love 
Interpreted my own.” 

He saw her breast heaving with agitation, and throw- 
ing away the book, he bent clown beside her, and 
looked up into her deep eyes, and said, “O Eva, what 
need of concealment ? you have read it long ago, have 
you not? I love you, Eva. Do you return my love?” 
he said, as he gained possession of her hand. 

She had won him, then — the dream of her latter life? 
This was the noble Julian kneeling at her side. She 
trembled for very joy, and whispered — “O Julian, 
Julian, do you not see that I loved you from the first 
day we met?” She regretted the speech the next 
moment, as though it had been wanting in maidenly 
reserve, but it was the first warm natural utterance of 
her heart; and Julian sprang up in an ecstasy of joy, 
and as she rose he claimed as his due a lover’s kiss. 

She blushed crimson, but suffered him to sit down 
beside her ; and they sat, hardly knowing anything but 
the great fact that they loved each other, till Mr. Ken- 
nedy’s voice had ceased in the adjoining room, and he 
came in. 

“ Oh, there you are,” he said. “ Edward is sinking 
to sleep. How good of you to be so quiet ! ” 

They rose up, and Julian led her to him with her 
hand in his, and his arm supporting her. “Mr. Ken- 
nedy,” he said, “I am going to ask you for the most 
priceless jewel you possess.” 

“ What ! is it indeed so ? Ah, you wicked Julian, 
do not rob me of Eva yet. She is too young; and now 

that Edward seems likely to be ill so long ah, me ! 

I am bereaved of my children. Well, well, I suppose 
it must be so. Come here, darling, to the old father 
you are going to desert ; I daresay Julian won’t grudge 
me one kiss.” 

lie kissed her tenderly, and she clung about his 


292 


JULIAN HOME. 


neck as she whispered, “ But it will not be yet for a 
long, long time, papa.” 

“ What youth calls long, my Eva; but not long for 
those who are walking into the shadow down the hill.” 

O happy, happy lovers ! how gloriously that night 
did the stars shine out for you in the deep, unfathom- 
able galaxies of heaven, and the dew fall, and the moon 
dawn into a sky yet flushed with the long-unfading 
purple of the fading day ! Yet there was sadness 
mixed with their happiness as they heard, until they 
parted, the plaintive murmurs of Kennedy’s fitful sleep, 
and thought of all the sufferings of their brother, and 
how nearly, how very nearly, he had been hurried 
from the midst of them by self-inflicted death. 




CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. 

REPENTANCE. 

f< This world will not believe a man repents. 

And this wise world of ours is mainly right ; 

For seldom does a man repent, and use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch 
Of blood and nature wholly out of him, 

And make all clean, and plant himself afresh.” 

^ennyson’s Idylls. 

Beautiful Orton-on- the- Sea ! who that has been 
there does not long to return there again and again, 
and gaze on the green and purple of its broad bay, and 
its one little islet, and the golden sands that stretch 
along its winding shore and its glens clothed with fir- 
trees and musical with the voice of many rills? 

It was there that Kennedy had lived from childhood, 
and it was there that he now returned to spend at 
home the year of his rustication. They arrived at 
home on the Monday evening, and from that time for- 
ward Kennedy rapidly gained health and strength, 
and was able to move about again, though his hand 
healed but slowly, and it took months to enable him to 
use it without pain. 

On that little islet of the bay was Kennedy’s favorite 
haunt. It was a place where the top of a low cliff was 
sheltered by a clump of trees which formed a natural 
bower, from whence he would gaze untired for hours 
on the rising and falling of the tide. A little orphan 
cousin whom Mr. Kennedy had adopted used to row 
him over to this retirement, and while the boys stayed 
in their little boat, and fished, or hunted for sea-birds’ 

293 



294 


JULIAN HOME. 


nests in the undisturbed creeks and inlets, Kennedy, 
with some book in his hand, would rest under the wav- 
ing branches, and gaze upon the glancing waves. 

And at times, when, like a great glowing globe, the 
sun sank, after the fiery heat of some burning summer 
day, into the crimsoned waters, and filled the earth, 
and the heavens, and the sea with silent splendors, a 
deep feeling of solemnity, such as lie had never before 
experienced, would steal over Kennedy’s mind. He 
could not but remember that, but for God’s special 
grace thwarting the nearly-accomplished purpose of his 
sin, the eyes which were filled with such indescribable 
visions of glory would have been closed in death, and 
the brow on which the sea-wind was beating in such 
cool and refreshful perfume would have been crumbling 
under the clammy sod. Surely it must be for some 
great thing that his life had been saved : it was his 
own no longer; it must be devoted to mighty purposes 
of love and toil. Kennedy began to long for some 
work of danger and suffering as his portion upon earth : 
he longed ambitiously for the wanderings of the apostle 
and the crown of the martyr. The good deeds of a 
conventional piety, the quiet routine of a commonplace 
benevolence, seemed no meet or adequate employment 
for his highly-wrought mind. Ko, he would sail to 
another world ; there he would join a new colony in 
clearing away the primeval depths of some virgin 
forest, and tilling the glebes of a rich and untried soil; 
and, living among them, he would make that place a 
centre for wide evangelization — the home of religious 
enthusiasms and equal laws ; or he would go as a 
missionary to the savage, and the cannibal, and, sail- 
ing from reef to reef, where the coral islands of the 
Pacific mirror in the deep waters of their calm lagoon 
the reed-huts of the savage and the feathery coronal of 
tropic trees, he would devote his life to reclaiming from 
ignorance and barbarism the waste places of a degraded 
humanity. 

Such were the visions and purposes that floated 
through his mind — partly the fantastic fancies of 
dreamy hours, partly the unconscious desire to fly from 


JULIAN HOME . 


295 


a land which reminded him too painfully of vanished 
hopes, and from a scene which had been the witness of 
his error and disgrace. Perhaps, most of all, he was 
influenced by the desire to escape from a house which 
constantly recalled the image of a lost love— a lost love 
that he never hoped to regain ; for Kennedy thought 
— though but little had been said about it — that Violet 
had deliberately and finally rejected him in scorn for 
the courses he had followed. 

But he wished, before he quite made up his mind 
as to his future career, to see Violet once more, and 
bid her a last farewell. Not daring to write and an- 
nounce his intention lest she should refuse to meet him 
again, and unwilling to trust his secret to any of her 
family, he determined to see her by surprise, and en- 
joy for one last hour the unspeakable happiness of 
sitting by her side. 

“ Father,” he said, “I am well now, or nearly well; 
will you let me go on a little journey ?” 

“A journey! where? We will all go together, 
Edward, if you want any change of air and scene.” 

lie shook his head. “ You can guess,” he said, 
“ where I wish to go for the last time.” 

“ But do you think you can travel alone, Eddy, with 
your poor wounded hand?” asked Eva. 

“ O yes ; the splinters keep it safe, and I shall only 
be two days or so away.” 

They suffered him to fulfil his whim, although they 
felt'that if he saw Violet the meeting could hardly fail 
to be full of pain. 

It was deep in autumn when he started, and arriv- 
ing at Ildown, took up his abode in the little village 
inn. He kept himself as free from observation as he 
could, and begged the landlady, who recognized him, 
not to mention his arrival to any one. She had seen 
him on his former visit, and remembered favorably 
his genial good humor and affable bearing. He told 
her frankly that he had come to say good-bye to Miss 
Home, whom he might not see again ; but he did not 
wish to go to the house : could the landlady tell him 
anything about their movements ? 


2D6 


JULIAN HOME . 


“Why, yes; I do happen to know,” she said, “and 
I suppose there can’t be no harm in telling you, for I 
heard Master Cyril say as how they were all a-going 
a-gipseying to-morrow in the wood near the King’s 
Oak.” 

“ And when do you think they will start ?” 

“ O they’ll start at ten, sir, in the morning, for I’m 
a-going to lend ’em my little trap to carry the per- 
wisions in, and that.” 

This would suit Kennedy capitally, and musing on 
the meeting of the morrow, he sank into a doze in the 
arm-chair. A whispering awoke him, and he was 
far from reassured by overhearing the following 
colloquy : — 

“ Who be that in the parlor?” asked a rustic. 

“ O, that’s the young gentleman as wer’ Miss Vio- 
let’s sweetheart,” said the barmaid confidentially ; 
“ nobody don’t know of ifc, but I heard the Missus a-say- 
ing so.” 

“ Why bean’t he at the house then ? ” 

“ O, ye know, he ain’t her sweetheart no longer ; 
there’s been a muddle somehow, and they do say as 
how he shot hisself, but he don’t seem to be shot much 
now, to look at ’im. He’s as likely and proper a young 
gentleman as I’ve seen for a long time.” 

Taking his candle wearily, Kennedy listened to no 
more of the conversation, and went to bed. His bed- 
room window looked towards the pleasant house and 
garden of Mrs. Home, and he did not lie down till he 
had seen the light extinguished in the embowered 
window of Violet’s room. Next morning he got up 
betimes, and, after dressing himself with the utmost 
pain and difficulty, for he did not like to ask for the 
assistance which he always had at home since his ill- 
ness, he went down to breakfast. Hardly touching 
the dainties which the hospitable old landlady had 
provided, he strolled off to the wood, almost before 
Ildown was astir, and sat down in a place not far from 
the King’s Oak, in a green hollow, where he was shel- 
tered from sight by the broad tree trunks and the tall 
and graceful ferns. 


JULIAN NOME. 


297 

He had not long to wait, and the time so spent 
would have been happy if agitation had not prevented 
him from enjoying the glories of the scene. Nowhere 
was “ the gorgeous and melancholy beauty of the sun- 
lit autumnal landscape ” more bounteously displayed. 
The grand old trees all round him were burning them- 
selves away in many-colored flames, and the green 
leaves that still lingered amid the rich hues of beauti- 
ful decay suggested, in their contrasting harmony with 
their withered brethren, many a deep moral to the 
thoughtful mind ; and everything that the thoughts 
could shape received a deeper emphasis from the un- 
broken silence of the wood. 

The occupation of his mind made the time pass 
quickly, and it seemed but a few minutes when he saw 
the Homes approaching the King’s Oak. The boys 
laid on the greensward the materials for the picnic, 
and then, while Violet and Mrs. Home seated them- 
selves on a fallen trunk and took out their work, Julian 
read to them, and Cyril and Frank w r alked through 
the wood in search of exercise and amusement. 

As they passed near the spot where Kennedy was 
seated, they caught sight of a squirrrel’s nest, and 
Frank was instantly on the alert to reach the spoil. 
While he was scrambling with difficulty up the tall fir, 
Cyril stayed at the foot, and Kennedy determined to 
call him. Cyril had grown into a tail handsoine boy 
of seventeen, and Kennedy knew that he could be 
trusted to help him, for he had won the boy’s affection 
thoroughly when they were together in Switzerland. 

“Cyril!” 

The sound of a voice in that quiet place, out of ear- 
shot of his friends, startled Cyril, and he turned hastily 
round. 

“ Who’s there ? ” 

“Edward Kennedy. Come here, Cyril, and let me 
speak to you ; Frank does not notice us.” 

“ Edward — you here ! ” said Cyril. “ Why don’t you 
come and see — mother ? ” He was going to say Violet, 
but he checked himself. 

“ I want to see, not Mrs. Home, but Violet,” said 


298 


JULIAN HOME. 


Kennedy ; “ you know our engagement is broken off, 
Cyril ; I have only come to say farewell before I leave 
England, perhaps forever. Call Violet here alone.” 

Cyril, who had heard of Kennedy’s wild ways at 
college, and of the dreadful story that had raised 
against him the suspicion of intended suicide, hesitated 
a moment, as though he were half-afraid or unwilling 
to fulfil the commission. But Kennedy said to him 
sorrowfully — 

“ You need not fear, Cyril, that you will be doing 
wrong. Tell Frank first, and then you can stay near, 
while I speak for a few minutes to your sister.” 

Cyril called down his brother from the tree, and 
told him that Kennedy was there. “ Stay here, Frankie, 
while I fetch Violet ; Edward wants to bid her good- 
bye.” 

lie ran off, and said — “ Come here, Vi. ; Frank and I 
have something to show you.” 

“ Is it anything very particular?” said Violet, “for 
I shall disturb Julian’s reading if I go away.” 

“Yes, something very particular.” 

“Won’t you tell me what?” 

“ Why, a squirrel’s nest for one thing, which Frank 
has found. Do come.” 

“You imperious boys, at home for your holidays!” 
she said, smiling; “Punch hasn’t half cured you of 
your tyrtmny to us poor sisters.” She rose to follow 
him, and when they had gone a few steps, he said — 

“ Vi., Edward Kennedy is in that little dell there, 
behind the trees ; he has come, he says, to bid you 
good-bye.” 

The sudden announcement startled her, but she only 
leaned on Cyril’s shoulder, and walked on, while lie 
almost heard the beating of her heart. 

“ We will stay here, Violet ; you see him there.” 

Cyril pointed to a tree, against whose trunk Ken- 
nedy was leaning, with his eyes bent upon the ground, 
looking at the red splashes on the withered leaves, and 
the golden buds embroidered on the “elf-needled mat 
of moss.” Hearing the sound of footsteps he raised 
his head, and a moment after he was by Violet’s side. 


JULIAN HOME. 299 

Taking her hand without a word, while her bosom 
shook with deep sobs as she saw his pale face and 
maimed hand, he led her to the gnarled and serpentine 
roots of a great oak, and seated her there, while he sat 
lowly at her feet upon the red ground, 

“ With sheddings of the pining umbrage tinged.” 

IIow was it that she did not shrink from him ? How 
was it that she seemed content to rest close beside him, 
and suffered her hand to rest upon his shoulder as he 
stooped ? Did she love him still after all ? Had Julian 
deceived him with the assertion of her acquiescence in 
the termination of their engagement? A strange rush 
of new hope filled his heart. He would test the true 
state of her affections. 

“ I have come,” he said, in that tone of voice which 
was so dear to her remembrance, — “ I have come, 
Violet, to bid you farewell forever. Since you have 
rejected me, I have neither heart nor hope, and I shall 
leave England as soon as I may go.” 

The tears were falling fast from her blue eyes. “ O 
Edward,” she said, “ why do you bid me farewell ? Do 
you not think that I love you still ?” 

“ Still, Violet ! you love me, the ruined, dishonorable, 
disgraced — the ” She would not hear the dread- 
ful word, but laid her finger on his lip. 

“ O hush, Edward, those words are not for you. You 
may have sinned; they tell me you have sinned : but 
have you not repented too, Edward ? Have the lessons 
of sickness and anguish taught you nothing? I am 
sure they have. I could not wed one who was living 
an evil life, but now I see your true self once more.” 

“ Then you love me still ? ” The words were uttered 
in astonishment, and the emotions of unexpected joy 
almost overpowered him. 

“ I never ceased to love you, Edward. Do you think 
that I am one to trifle with your heart, or to use it as 
a plaything for me to triumph by? Never, never. 
Had you died, or, worse still, had you continued in 
sinful ways, I could not even then have ceased to love 
you, though we might have been separated until death. 


/ 


300 


JULIAN HOME. 


But now I read other things in your face, Edward, and 
I will be yours — your betrothed — again. Come, let us 
join the rest. There is not one of us but will welcome 
you with joy.” 

“ Nay, nay, let us stay here for a moment,” he cried, 
as she rose up ; “ let me realize the joyful sensation 
which your words have given me ; let me sit here, 
Violet, a few moments at your feet, and feel the touch 
of your hand in mine, and look at your face, that I may 
recover strength again.” 

They sat there in silence, and the thoughts of both 
recurred to that other scene where they had sat on 
the great boulder under the shadow of the Alps, and 
watched the rose-film steal over their white summits 
on the golden summer-eve. It was the same love that 
still filled their souls — the same love, but more sober, 
more quiet, more like the love of maturer years, less 
like the passionate love of boy and girl. It was more 
of an autumnal love than of old ; and if the departing 
summer had flung new hues over the forest and the 
glen, they were- the duller hues that recalled to mind 
the greater glory of the past. It was round a dying 
year that Autumn was “ folding his jewelled arms.” 
Yet they were happy — very happy, and they felt that, 
come what might, nothing on earth could part them 
now. 

When Kennedy had grown more calm, Violet called 
for Cyril, and bade him break the fact of Edward’s pres- 
ence to her mother and Julian. The boy bounded 
off to do her bidding, and in a few moments Kennedy 
was seated among the Homes as one of them. They 
received him with no simulated affection ; Frank and 
Cyril helped to take away all awkwardness from the 
meeting by their high spirits, and when they all sat 
down on the velvet mosses to their rural meal, every 
one of them had banished the painful hauntings of the 
past. Of course Kennedy accompanied them home ; * 
they drove back in the quiet evening, and Kennedy 
sat by Violet’s side. 

lie stayed at Ildown till Julian returned to St. Wer- 
ner’s, and, as was natural, he revolved in his mind 


JULIAN HOME. 


301 


continually his future course. At last he determined 
to talk it over with Violet, and told her of all his heroic 
longings for a life of toil and endeavor, if need were, 
even of banishment and death — all the high thoughts 
that had filled his heart as he sat alone in the island 
by Orton-on-the-Sea. 

“ Let us wait,” she said, “ Edward. God will decide 
all this for us in time, and if duty seems to call you to 
the hard life of missionary or colonist, I am ready to 
go with you.” 

“ But don’t you feel yourself, Violet, a kind of com- 
mon-placeness about English life; a silver-slippered 
religion, a pettiness that does not satisfy, a sense of 
comfort incompatible with the strong desire to do the 
work which others will not do in the neglected corners 
of the vineyard.” 

“No,” she answered, smiling, “ I am content; 

‘ The trivial round, the common task 
Should furnish all we ought to ask ; 

Room to deny ourselves — a road 
To bring us daily nearer God.’” 

“True,” he said; “well, I must try not to carry 
ambition into my religion.” 

“ Of course you return to St. Werner’s next autumn?” 

He mused long. “ Ah, Violet, you cannot conceive 
how awful to my imagination that place has grown. 
And to return after rustication, and live among men 
who will regard me with galling curiosity, and dons 
who will look at me sideways with suspicion — can I 
ever bear it ? ” 

“ Why not, Edward ? They cannot affect you by 
their opinion. I heard you say the other day that 
your heart was becoming an island, and the waters 
round it broadening every day. If the island itself be 
beautiful and happy, it need not reck of the outer 
world.” 

“ You are right, Violet. I will return if need be, 
and bear all meekly which I have deserved to bear. 
The one sorrow will be gone,” he said, as he drew her 
nearer to his side, “ that drove me into—— Yes, you 


302 


JULIAN HOME. 


are right. I will go away home to-morrow, when 
Julian starts, and begin from the very first day to 
read with all my might. Hitherto I have had only the 
bitter lessons of Camford ; let us see if I cannot gain 
some of her honors too.” 




CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST. 

BRUCE IN TROUBLE. 

TY)ve( dpu£$ aids xuneipos. 

Theocr. Id. 106 . 

“ Nuda nec arva placent, umbrasque negantia molles, 

Neo dudum vetiti me laris angit amor.'— Milton. 

Bruce, when expelled from St. Werner's, thought 
very little of his disgrace. It hardly ruffled the calm 
stream of his self-complacency, and, for some reasons, 
he was rather glad that it had happened. He did not 
like Camford ; he had never taken to reading, and 
being thus debarred from all intellectual pleasures, he 
had grown thoroughly tired of late breakfasts, boating, 
noisy wines, and interminable whist parties. More- 
over, he had made far less sensation at Camford than 
he had expected. Somehow or other he had a dim 
consciousness that men saw through him ; that his 
cleverness did not conceal his superficiality, nor his 
easy manners blind men’s eyes to his ungenerous and 
selfish heart. Even his late phase of popular scepti- 
cism was less successful at Camford than it would 
have been at places of less steady diligence and less 
sound acquirements. In fact Bruce imagined that he 
was by no means appreciated. The sphere was too 
narrow for him ; he was quite sure that in the arena 
of London society and political life he was qualified to 
play a far more conspicuous part. 

Nor did he believe that Sir Rollo Bruce would care 
for his expulsion any more than he did himself-; he 
fancied that his father was quite above the middle- 

303 


304 


JULIAN HOME . 


class prejudices of respect and reverence for pedantry 
and pedagogues, and was too much a man of the world 
to be disturbed by a slight contretemps like this. He 
wrote home a careless note to mention the fact that 
his St. Werner’s career was ended, and attributed this 
result to a mere escapade at a wine-party, which had 
been distorted by rumor, and exaggerated by malice, 
into a serious offence. 

So when Vyvyan gayly entered his father’s house he 
felt rather light-hearted than otherwise. He expected 
that very likely some party would be going on, and 
quite looked forward to an agreeable dance. When he 
arrived, however, Vyvyan House was quite silent; a 
dim light came from a single window, but that was all. 

“ Sir Rollo and my mother not at home, I suppose,” 
he said to the plushed and powdered footman. 

“ Yes, sir, they’re in the library.” 

He entered ; they were sitting on opposite sides of 
the fire, with a single lamp between them. They were 
not doing anything, and Lady Bruce appeared to have 
been crying; but neither of them took any notice of 
his entrance beyond turning their heads. 

“ How do you do ? ” he said, advancing gracefully ; 
but not a little surprised at so silent and moody a 
greeting. 

“ How do you do ? ” was his father’s cold reply. 

“ Dear me — I quite expected to find a party going 
on, but you seem quite gloomy. Is anything the 
matter ? ” 

“ Matter, sir ! ” exclaimed Sir Rollo, starting up 
vehemently from his chair, and angrily pacing the 
room. “Matter! Upon my word, Vyvyan, your im- 
pudence is sublime.” 

“You surprise me. What have I done ?” 

“ Done ! ” retorted his father, with intense scorn. 
“You have been expelled from college; you have 
wasted your whole opportunities of education; you 
have thrown aw’ay the boundless sums which I have 
spent in your interest ; you have lived the life of a 
puppy and a fool; and now you come back in the 
uttermost disgrace, with your name involved in I kno\y 


JULIAN HOME. 805 

not what infamy, and are as cool about it as if you 
returned to announce a triumph.” 

Not deigning a word more, Sir Rollo turned indig- 
nantly on his heel and left Bruce as much astounded 
by so unexpected a reception as if he had suddenly 
trodden on a snake. He relapsed into uncommon 
sheepishness, and hardly knew how to address his 
mother, who sat sobbing in her arm-chair. 

“My dear mother,” he said at last, “ what can be 
the matter that I am met by such tornados as my wel- 
come on returning ? ” 

“Don’t ask me, Vyvyan. Your father is naturally 
angry at your expulsion, and you have grieved us 
both. But, dear Yyvyan, do not put on such an 
impertinent and indifferent manner; it annoys Sir 
Rollo exceedingly. Do submit yourself, my dear boy, 
and he will soon recover his usual suavity.” 

“But I never saw him like this before.” 

“No; these violent fits of temper have only come 
over him of late, and I am afraid that there must be 
some cause for them of which I am unaware.” 

Bruce sat silent and unhappy. Expelled from col- 
lege, and insulted (as he called it) at home, he felt 
truly alone and miserable. He went up to his own 
room, supped there, and coming down next morning 
to the awkward meeting with his parents, spoke a few 
words of regret about his position. Sir Rollo barely 
listened to them, breakfasted in silence, and immedi- 
ately afterwards set out for his office. He did not re- 
turn till late in the evening, and continued for some 
time to spend the days in this manner, seeing next to 
nothing of his wife and son, but sternly forbidding any 
festivities or balls. 

One morning he called Vyvyan into his study be- 
fore starting. Bruce laid aside liis novel, yawned and 
followed. 

“ Pray, sir, do you intend to spend all your time in 
reading novels?” said Sir Rollo. 

“ There’s nothing else for me to do that I see.” ' 

“Very well. If you suppose that you are going to 
spend your days in idleness, you are mistaken. I give 
20 


306 


JULIAN HOME. 


you a week to choose some occupation that will not 
involve me in further outlay.” 

Bruce took out his embroidered pocket-handkerchief, 
redolent with scent, and blew his nose affectedly. On 
doing so, an unopened envelope dropped on the floor 
out of his pocket ; picking it up, he glanced at it, tore 
it across, and flung it into the lire. Sir Rollo imme- 
diately picked up the pieces with the tongs, and opened 
it. 

“ I see that this is a bill, and I shall proceed to look 
at it.” 

“Yes, if you like,” said Bruce, in an indifferent 
tone; “it’s from a dun.” 

It was a tailor’s bill which had been sent after him, 
and it amounted to £150. 

“And you suppose,” said his father, “that I am go- 
ing to pay these debts for you ? ” 

“ I suppose so, certainly — some day. Let the dogs 
wait.” 

Sir Rollo seemed on the point of a great burst of 
wrath ; his lips positively quivfered and his eye flashed 
with passion. He seemed, however, to control himself, 
— darted at his son a look of wrath and scorn, and 
left the room. A note that evening informed Lady 
Bruce that business detained him from home, and 
that he might not return for some days. 

A week after, Bruce received a letter, with foreign 
postmarks, to the following effect : — 

“ Dear Vyvyan — By the time you receive this I 
shall be on the Continent, far beyond the reach of the 
law. 

“ I have been living for the last ten years on the 
money I embezzled from the company whose affairs I 
managed. The fraud cannot fail of being detected 
almost immediately. 

“ I feel acutely the position in which I am forced to 
leave your mother. I do not pity you in the least. I 
gave you the amplest opportunity to save yourself 
from this ruin, if you had not been a fool. You cared 
for nothing and for nobody but yourself. You never 


JULIAN HOME. 


307 


worked hard, though you knew it to be my wish ; you 
assumed an air of spurious independence, and affected 
the fine gentleman. Your conceit arid idleness will 
be their own punishment. You have made your own 
bed ; now you will have to lie in it. 

“ Kollo Bruce.” 

The truth was soon known to the world. Number- 
less executions were put into Vyvyan House. Every 
available fragment of property was seized by Sir 
Rollo’s creditors ; and as Lady Bruce’s private fortune 
had long been spent, she and her son were left all but 
penniless. The gay and gilded friends of their sum- 
mer hours were the first to desert them, and Sir Kollo’s 
wickedness had created such a gust of indignation that 
few came forward to lend his family the slightest assist- 
ance. 

When Bruce found himself in this most distressing 
position — when he sat with his mother in shame and 
retirement in obscure lodgings, which had been taken 
for them by one of their former servants, and with no 
immediate means of livelihood— then first the folly of 
his past career revealed itself to his mind in its full 
proportions. Lady Bruce’s health was dreadfully 
affected by the mental anguish through which she had 
passed, and it became a positive necessity that Bruce 
should work with his head or hands to earn their daily 
bread. 

He found no difficulty in procuring a temporary 
post in a lawyer’s office as a clerk. The drudgery was 
terrible. Daily, from nine in the morning to six in the 
evening, he found himself chained to the desk, and 
obliged to go through the dullest and most mechanical 
routine, the only respite being half an hour in the mid- 
dle of the day, which he spent in dining at an eating- 
house. Nursed in the lap of luxury, habituated to the 
choicest viands, and accustomed to find every whim 
fulfilled, this kind of life was intolerable to him. The 
steaming recesses of a squalid eating-house gave him 
a sensation of loathing and sickness, and the want of 
exercise made him look haggard and wan. In vain he 


308 


JULIAN HOME. 


appealed, to men who had called themselves his father’s 
friends ; he found to his cost that the son of a detected 
swindler has no friends, and more especially if his own 
life have been tainted with suspicion or dishonor. 
Poor Bruce was driven to the very verge of despair. 

He applied for a situation in a bank, but he was 
informed that it could not be granted him unless he 
could obtain a certificate of good character from his 
college, which, of course, was out of the question. He 
tried writing for the press, but his shallow intellectual 
resources soon ran dry. The pittance he could thus 
earn did not remunerate him for the toil and wasted 
health, and even this pittance was too often cruelly 
held back. He made applications in answer to all 
sorts of advertisements, but one after another the 
replies were unfavorable, until his whole heart died 
within him. No intelligence could be obtained of his 
father’s hiding-place, and before a year had elapsed 
since Sir Rollo’s bankruptcy and felony had been made 
known, Lady Bruce died at her son’s lodgings, worn 
out with misery and shame. 

This climax of the young man’s misfortunes awoke 
at last the long dormant sympathy in his favor. An 
effort was made by his few remaining and unalienated 
friends to provide for him the means of emigration, 
which seemed the only course likely to give him once 
more a fair start in life. But to pay his passage, and 
provide him with the means of settling in New Zea- 
land, required a considerable sum, and Bruce had to 
suffer for weeks the agonies of hope deferred. And 
when he glanced over his past life, he found nothing 
to help him. He could not look back with any com- 
fort ; the past was haunted by the phantoms of regret. 
His violent and wilful infancy, his proud, passionate 
boyhood, his wandering and wicked youth, afforded 
him few green spots whereon the eye of retrospect 
could rest with calm. As the wayworn traveller who 
on some bright day sat down by the fringed bank of 
clear fountain or silver lake, and while he leant to look 
into its waters, was suddenly dazzled into madness by 
the flashing upwards upon him, from the unknown 


JULIAN HOME . 


309 


depths, of some startling image; so Bruce, as he rested 
by the dusty wayside of life, and gazed into the dark 
abysses of recollection, was startled and horrified, with 
a more fearful nympholepsy, by the crowding images 
and sullen glare of unforgotten and half-forgotten sins. 

But in dwelling on his past life Bruce bethought 
him that he might still find friends at school ; and not 
long after his mother’s funeral lie determined to call 
on his old masters, and get such pecuniary aid as he 
could from them and his school-boy friends. To come 
to such a resolution was the very bitterness of humilia- 
tion ; but Bruce was now all eagerness to escape from 
England, and recommence a new life in other lands. 

He took a third-class ticket to Harton, and when he 
arrived there, was so overcome with shame that he 
well-nigh determined to return by the next train, and 
leave the town unvisited, at whatever cost ; but on in- 
quiry he found that the next train would not start for 
some hours, and meanwhile he fully expected to be 
seen and recognized by those whom he had known 
before. And yet it was not easy, in that stooping 
figure, with the pale cheek and dimmed eye, to recog- 
nize the bright and audacious Vyvyan Bruce, who 
had been captain of Harton barely three years before. 
Poverty, ruin, disappointment, confinement, guilt, and 
sorrow, had done their work with marvellous quick- 
ness. 

Nerving himself to the effort, he turned his face to- 
wards Harton, and walked slowly up the hill. The 
reminiscences which the walk recalled were not happy 
—rather, far from happy. It was not because formerly, 
when he was a flattered, and rich, and handsome, and 
popular Harton boy, all the prospects of his life had 
looked as bright as now they seemed full of gloom ; it 
was not that then both his parents were living, and 
now one was dead, the other disgraced ; it was not 
that then he was full of health and vigor, and now 
was feeble and wearied; it was not that then he 
seemed to have many friends, and now he hardly knew 
of one; no, it was none of these things that affected 
him most deeply, as he caught sight of the well-known 


310 


JULIAN HOME. 


chapel, and strolled up the familiar hill; but it was 
the thought, the bitter thought, the cursed thought, 
that there, as at Camford, the voice of his brother's 
blood was crying against him from the ground. 

By the time he reached the school buildings it hap- 
pened to be just one o’clock, and from the various 
school-rooms the boys were pouring out in gay and 
noisy throngs. The faces were new to him for the 
most part, and at first he began to fancy that he should 
recognize no one. But at last he observed a boy look- 
ing hard at him, who at length came up and shook 
him warmly by the hand. 

“How do you do, Bruce? Ah, I see you don’t re- 
member me ; true, I was only in the Shell when you 
left, but you ought at least to remember your old fags.” 

The change of countenance between fifteen and 
eighteen is, however, very great, and it was not with- 
out an effort that Bruce recalled in the tali strong fel- 
low who was talking to him his quondam fag, little 
Walter Thornley, now in his turn captain of the eleven, 
and head of the school, whose admiration of Bruce we 
have already recorded in the first chapter of this event- 
ful history. 

11 Where are you off to now?” said Thornley. 

“ To the Doctor’s.” 

“Well, you’ll come and see me afterwards ?” 

Bruce promised, and then walked to see the Doctor 
and his old tutor. To both he opened his piteous tale, 
and both of them gave him the most generous and lib- 
eral assistance; they promised also to procure him 
such other aid as might lie in their power. A little 
lighter in heart, he went to pay his visit to Thornley, 
whom he found occupying his old rooms. As Bruce re- 
crossed the familiar threshold the contrasts of past 
and present were almost too much for him, and he 
found it difficult to restrain his tears. lie stayed but 
a short time, and then returned to London to his poor 
and lonely lodgings. 

Walter Thornley heard his story from the tutor, 
and besides getting a large subscription for him among 
his own friends, wrote to ask if Julian could procure 


JULIAN HOME, 


311 


for the emigrant any assistance in Camford. Julian 
received the letter about the middle of the October 
term in his third year, and it ran thus : 

“Dear Home — Beyond knowing by rumor that I 
am head of the school, you will, I suppose, hardly re- 
member a boy who was so low in the school as I was 
when you were monitor. But though you will perhaps 
have forgotten me, I have not forgotten you, or the 
many kind acts I experienced from you and Lillyston 
when I was a little new fellow. Remembering these, I 
am emboldened to write, and ask if you or any of the 
old Hartonians are willing to assist poor Bruce to 
settle in New Zealand, now that he has no chance of 
succeeding well in England? I am sure that you per- 
sonally will be glad of any opportunity to help an old 
schoolfellow in his distress and difficulty, for report 
tells me that Julian Home is as kind-hearted and 
generous as he was when he won the Newry scholar- 
ship at Harton. — Believe me to be, my dear Home, 
yours very truly, Walter Thornley.” 

Julian had almost forgotten the very existence of 
Thornley when this letter recalled him to his mind ; 
but it was one of the pleasures of Julian’s life constantly 
to receive letters of this kind from former school-fel- 
lows, thanking him for past kindnesses of which he 
was wholly unconscious, from the simple and natural 
manner in which they had been done. It need hardly 
be said that he at once complied with the request 
which the letter contained, and that (next to De 
Vayne’s) his own was the largest contribution towards 
the handsome sum which the Hartonians and other 
St. Werner’s men cheerfully subscribed to assist their 
former comrade in his hour of need. 

To avoid all necessary wounding of Bruce’s feelings, 
the money thus collected was transmitted to the Doctor 
to be placed at Bruce’s disposal. It completed the 
sum requisite for his outfit, and there was no longer 
any obstacle in the way of his immediate departure 
from England. He at once booked his passage by an 


312 


JULIAN ROME. 


emigrant ship, and sailed from England. The day 
after his departure, Julian received from him the fol- 
lowing letter : — 

“ Dear Julian — Although you are one of those 
who would ‘do good by stealth, and blush to find it 
fame,’ I am not ignorant of the debt of gratitude which 
I owe to you for providing me with the means of re- 
covering my fortunes, and beginning life afresh in 
another hemisphere. 

“ Our lots in life, since at Harton we ran a neck-and- 
neck race, have been widely different, and while the 
happy months have been rolling for you on silver- 
wheels, and the happy hours speeding by you with 
white feet, to me Time has been 

‘ A maniac scattering dust, 

And Life a Fury slinging flame.’ 

How much I have gone through in the last year — 
the accumulated agony of remorse, bereavement, and 
ruin — no human soul can tell. No wonder my bark 
was wrecked after such mad and careless navigation ; 
but, thank God, the blow of the tempest that staggered 
and shattered it, and drove it on the reefs, has not 
sunk it utterly, and now, like a waif or stray, it is 
being carried to be refitted across a thousand leagues 
of sea. 

“ I am not the Bruce you knew, but a wiser, sadder, 
and better man. I have not yet lost all hope. The 
old book of my life was so smutched and begrimed — 
torn, dog’s-eared, and scrawled over — that it was 
scarcely worth while to turn over a new leaf. I have 
rather begun a new volume altogether, and trust, by 
God’s blessing, that when ‘ Finis ’ comes to be written 
in it, some few of the pages will bear reperusal. 

“‘De Vayne!’ how that name haunts me; how full 
it is of horror — De Vayne and Hazlet; and yet I hear 
that both have contributed to my help. It gives me 
new life to know that human hearts can be so full of 
forgiveness and of love. 

“ Starting almost for another world — without fort- 


JULIAN HOME. 


313 


une, without friends, with nothing but head and heart, 
the wreck of what I was — I sometimes feel so sad that 
I could wish myself out of the world altogether. For- 
give me, then, for once more bringing before you a 
name which you can only connect with the most un- 
pleasant and sombre thoughts, and pray for me that 
my efforts (this time they are genuine and sincere) to 
improve my life, my talents, and my fortune, may be 
crowned with success. 

“We sail in an hour, or sooner, for I hear them 
weighing anchor now. Good-bye. Accept my warm- 
est thanks for all your kindnesses, and my wishes (ah, 
that they were worthier !) for your happiness in life ; 
and believe me, my dear Julian, your sincere and grate- 
ful friend, Vyvyan Bruce. 

“ P. /S . — I am positively alone ; not one soul is here 
even to bid me good-bye. Eheu ! jam serus vitam in- 
gemo relictam ! ” 

Julian read the letter many times ; he was touched 
by its delicate and eloquent sorrow — its fine and 
chastened thoughtfulness. He was no longer in a mood 
to work, but closed his books, and watched the faces 
in the fire. One thought filled him with joy and thank- 
fulness; it was the thought that, though of his friends 
and acquaintances so many had gone wrong, yet God 
was leading them back again, by rough and thorny 
roads it might be, but still by sure roads, to the right 
path once more. Hazlet, Bruce, Brogten — above all, 
his friend and brother Kennedy — were returning to the 
fold they had deserted, were learning that for him who 
has sinned and suffered, Repentance is the work of 
life. And as these thoughts floated through Julian’s 
mind the words of an old prayer came back upon his 
lips — 

“ That it may please Thee to strengthen such as do 
stand ; and to comfort and help the weak-hearted ; and 
to raise up them that fall ; and finally, to beat down 
Satan under our feet.” 



CHAPTER THE THIRTY -SECOND. 

A QUIET PROSPECT. 

“ Patet omnibus veritas ; nondum est prorsus occupata.” 

Sen. Ep. xxxiii. 

Julian’s third year at Camford was by no means the 
happiest period of his life there, because the sad absence 
of Kennedy and De Vayne made a gap in his circle of 
friends which could not easily be filled up ; but this 
was the annus mirabilis of his university career. He 
gained prize after prize; he was always first-class in 
the college examinations; he won the chancellor’s 
medals for Latin and English verse, and indeed almost 
divided with Owen the honors of the place. To crown 
all, he gained the Ireford University scholarship, which 
Owen had won the year before. 

Of all the men of his year he was the most honored 
and respected ; he wore the weight both of his honors 
and his learning “ lightly like a flower,” and there was 
a graceful humility, joined with his self-dependence, 
which won every heart, and prevented that jealousy 
which sometimes accompanies success. 

The most important event in his intellectual progress 
was the attention which he began to turn at this time 
to biblical and theological studies. He was thankful 
in later years that he had deferred such inquiries to a 
time when he was capacitated for them by a calm and 
sound judgment, and a solid basis of linguistic and 
historical knowledge. He had always looked forward 
to holy orders, and regarding the life of a clergyman fts 
his appointed work, he considered that an honest, a 
critical, and an impartial study of the Bible was his 
first duty. In setting about it, he came to it as a little 


JULIAN HOME. 


315 


child ; all he sought for was the simple truth, uncrushed 
by human traditions, unmingled with human dogmas, 
untrammelled by human interpretations, unadulterated 
by human systems. He found that he had a vast 
amount to unlearn, and saw clearly that if he fearlessly 
pursued his inquiries they would lead him so far from 
the belief of popular ignorance as very probably to bar 
all worldly success in the sacred profession which he 
had chosen. But he knew that the profession was 
sacred, and, fearless by nature, he determined to seek 
for truth, and truth only, honestly following the prayer- 
ful conclusions of his clearest and most deliberate 
judgment. Even in these early days the freedom and 
honesty of his research drew on him slight sibilations 
of those whose religion was shallow and sectarian ; in 
after-years they were destined to bring on him open 
and positive persecution. 

Not that Julian was ever in the least degree obtru- 
sive in stating his beliefs when they widely and ma- 
terially differed from the expressed opinions of the 
majority ; except, indeed, in the cases when such opin- 
ions appeared to him dishonest or dangerous. He was 
scrupulously careful not to wound the conscience of 
those who would have been unable to understand the 
ground of his arguments, even when they could not 
resist their logical statement ; and in whom long custom 
was so inveterate that the weed of system could not be 
torn out of their hearts without endangering the flower 
of belief. With men like Hazlet — I mean the reformed 
and now sincere Hazlet — he either confined himself 
wholly to subjects on which differences were impossi- 
ble, or, if questioned, stated his views with caution and 
consideration. It was only with the noisy and violent 
upholders of long-grounded error — error which they 
were too feeble to maintain except by mean invective 
or ignorant declamation — that Julian used the keen 
edge of his sarcasm, or the weighty sword of his moral 
indignation. lie was not the man to bow down before 
the fool’s-cap of tyrannous and blatant ignorance. If 
he could have chosen one utterance from the Holy 
Scriptures which to him was more precious in its full 


816 


JULIAN HOME. 


meaning than another, it was that promise, rich with 
inexhaustible blessing, “ And ye shall know the truth, 
and the truth shall make you free.” 

Perhaps there is no greater want in this age than a 
full, fair, fearless religio clerici ; the men who could 
write it, dare not ; and the men who dare write it, can- 
not. They say the age is hot ripe for it ; and if they 
mean that it would cause violent offence to the potent 
rulers of fashionable religious dogmatism, they are 

right. But 1 wander from my theme, and meddle 

with the subiects which this is not the place to touch 
upon. 

The close of Julian’s undergraduate life was as hon- 
orable as its promise had been. He obtained a brilliant 
first-class, and was bracketed with Owen as the best 
classic of his year. Lillyston also distinguished him- 
self, and all three determined to read for Fellowships, 
which, in due time, they had the honor to obtain. 

Meanwhile a circumstance had happened which 
changed the course of Kennedy’s intentions. After 
his conversation with Violet he had often thought of 
his plans for the future, and written to her about them. 
Reconciled to the plan of returning to Camford after 
the year of his rustication, he was now; trying to settle 
his future profession. Ilis way seemed by no means 
clear; he had never thought of being a clergyman, and 
now, more than ever, deemed himself unfitted for such 
a life. The long tedious delay of the bar to a man 
without any special interest,— the sickness of hope de- 
ferred during the prime years of life, — the weariness 
of a distasteful study, and the . heavy trial of dusky 
chambers in a city to a man who loved the sea and the 
country with a passionate love, deterred him from 
choosing the law. He had no liking for the army, ex- 
cept in time of war ; the life of the officers whom lie 
knew was not altogether to his mind, and he was 
neither inclined to gayety nor fond of an occupation 
which offered so many temptations to listlessness and. 
indolence. There was no immediate necessity to decide 
finally, because in any case he meant to take his degree, 
and looked forward with some hope, after his year of 


JULIAN HOME. 


317 


unswerving diligence in the retirement of Orton, to 
honors in the Tripos and the pleasant aid of a St. Wer- 
ner’s Fellowship as the crown of his career. But on 
the whole, he began to think that he might be both use- 
ful and successful as a physician. He had a deep rev- 
erence for this earthly tabernacle of the immortal soul, 
and a hallowed and reverend curiosity about that “harp 
of a thousand strings,” which, if it be untuned by sick- 
ness, mars every other melody of life. Violet entered 
into all his views, and they determined to leave the 
matter thus until Kennedy should have donned his 
B. A. gown. 

But about this period that public step was taken of 
throwing open to competition the Indian civil service 
appointments which has been of such enormous advan- 
tage to the “ middle classes ” of England by offering to 
them, as the reward of industry, the opportunity of a 
new and honorable profession, and which seems likely 
to be prolific of good results to the future of our empire 
, in the East. Directly Kennedy saw the announcement 
of the examination, he grasped with avidity the chance 
of a provision for life which it afforded, and easily 
obtained the assent both of his own and of Julian’s 
family to offer himself as a candidate. Of course they 
contemplated with sorrow the prospect of so long a sep- 
aration as the plan involved, but they saw that he him- 
self was strongly desirous to win their approval of his 
proposition, and of course his wishes were Violet’s too. 

So Kennedy went in for the civil service examina- 
tion, and acquitted himself so admirably that his name 
headed the list of successful competitors, and he was 
told that he must prepare himself to leave England in 
two years for the post to which they appointed him. 

This happened about the time that Julian took his 
degree, and before the year was over Julian had been 
elected a Fellow. Soon after his ordination the living 
of Elstan was offered to him. Being of small value — 
£200 a year — it had been rejected by all the Fellows of 
older standing; and had “come down” to Julian, who, 
to the surprise -of his friends, left Camford and ac- 
'' cepted it without hesitation. 


318 


JULIAN HOME. 


« My dear fellow,” said Mr. Admer, “ how in the 
world can you be so insane as to bury yourself alive, 
at so early an age, in so obscure a place as the vicarage 
of Elstan?” 

“Ob, Elstan is a charming place,” said Julian; “I 
visited it before accepting it, and found it to be one of 
those dear little English villages in the greenest fields 
of Wiltshire. The house is a very pretty one, and the 
parish is in perfect order. My predecessor was an 
excellent man ; his population, of one thousand souls, 
were perhaps as well attended to as any in all England.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Admer, impatiently, “I know 
all that ; but who will ever hear of you again if you 
go and become what Sydney Smith calls ‘a kind of 
holy vegetable’ in the cabbage-gardens of a Wiltshire 
hamlet ? ” 

“Why, what would you have me do, Mr. Admer?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know ; stay up here, edit a Greek 
play or one of the epistles ; bestir yourself for some 
rising university member in a contested election ; set 
yourself to get a bishopric or a deanery ; you could 
easily do it if you tried. I’ll give you a receipt for it 
any day you like. Or go to some London church; 
with such sermons as you could preach you might 
have London at your heels in no time, and as you 
would superadd learning to effectiveness, your fortune 
would be made.” 

Julian was sorry to hear him talk like this ; it was 
the language of a disappointed and half-believing man. 

“I don’t care for such aims,” he said. “A mere 
popular preacher I would not be, and as for preferment, 
it doesn’t depend much on me, but for the most part 
on purely accidental causes. All I care for at present 
is to be useful and happy. Obscurity is no trial to 
me ; neither success nor failure can make me different 
from what I am.” 

“Well then, at least write a book or something to 
keep yourself in men’s memory.” 

“ I don’t feel inclined. There are too many books 
in the world, and I have nothing particular to say. 
Besides, the annoyance and spite to which an author 


JULIAN HOME. 


319 


subjects himself are endless — to hear ignorant and 
often malicious criticisms, to see his views misrepre- 
sented, his motives calumniated, and his name aspersed. 
— No, for the present, I prefer the peace and the dignity 
of silence.” 

“ What on earth will you find to do, then, if you 
have no ambition ? ” 

“Nay, I don’t want you to think that I’m so virtu- 
ous or so phlegmatic as to have no ambition. I have 
a passionate ambition, whether known or unknown, 
so to live as to lead on the coming golden age, and 
prepare the next generation to be truer and wiser 
than ours. If it be my destiny never to be called to a 
wider sphere of work than Elstan, I shall be content 
to do it there.” 

“And how will you occupy your time?” asked Mr. 
Admer, who had long loved Julian too well even to 
smile at what were to himself mere unintelligible 
enthusiasms. 

“ Oh, no fear on that score. My profession will give 
me plenty of work; besides, what is the use of educa- 
tion if it be not to render it impossible for a man to 
know the meaning of the word ennui? Put me alone 
in the waiting-room of some little wayside station to 
wait three hours for a train, and I should still be per- 
fectly happy, even if there were no such thing as a 
book to be got for miles.” 

“Well, well, if you must vanish to Elstan, do. At 
any rate, remember your old Camford friends, and let 
us hear of you sometimes. I suppose you’ll keep on 
your Fellowship at least for a year.” 

“Insidious questioner!” said Julian; “no, I hope 
to be married very soon. You shall come down and 
see love in a cottage.” 

“Aha, I see it all now,” said Mr. Admer, with a sigh. 

“Nay, you mustn’t sigh. I expect to be congratu- 
lated, not pitied,” said Julian, gayly. “A wife will 
sweeten all the cares and sorrows of life, and instead 
of withering away my prime in selfish isolation* and 
spending these still half-youthful years in loneliness 
and without a real home, I shall feel myself complete 


320 


JULIAN HOME. 


in the materials of happiness. After all, ambition 
such as yours is a loveless bride.” 

So Julian accepted Elstan, and Lillyston went with 
him to London to help him in selecting furniture for 
the vicarage which was so soon to receive a bride. 

“ Are you really going to venture on matrimony 
with only £200 a year?” asked Lillyston. 

“I have some more of my own, you know, Hugh; 
Mr. Carden’s legacy, you remember ; but even if I 
hadn’t, I would still marry even on a hundred a year, 
if I wished, and the lady consented.” 

“ And repent at leisure.” 

“ Not a bit of it. If I were a man to whom lavender- 
colored kid gloves and unlimited eau-de-cologne were 
necessaries of life, it might be folly to think of it. But 
if a man be brave, and manly, and fearless of conven- 
tion, let him marry by all means, and not make his 
life bitter and his love cold by long delay.” 

“ But how about his children ?” 

“ Well, it may be fanaticism, but I believe that God 
never sends a soul into the world without providing 
sufficient for its sustenance, if the proper means be 
taken with diligence and faith. Of course, such an 
assertion will set the tongues of our would-be philoso- 
phers waggling in scornful cachinnation ; but in spite 
of that, I do believe that if a man have faith, and a 
strong heart, and common-sense, he may depend upon 
it his children will not starve. Some of the very hap- 
piest people I know are to be found among the large 
families of country clergymen. Besides, very often 
the children succeed in life, and improve their father’s 
position. I haven’t the shadow of a doubt that I am 
doing the right thing. I only wish, Hugh, that you 
would follow my example.” 

“Perhaps I shall some day,” said Lillyston. 

“ And meanwhile you will be my bridegroom’s man, 
will you not ? ” 

“ Joyfully — if it be only to see Miss Kennedy’s face 
again.” 

“ And do you know that Kennedy is to be married 
to Yiolet the same day ? ” 


JULIAN HOME. 


321 


“ Is he ?— happy fellow ! As for me, I am going to 
resign my Fellowship, and to make myself useful at 
Lillyston Court. When is the wedding to be?” 

“ Both weddings, you mean, Hugh. On the tenth 
of next June at Orton-on-the-Sea— the loveliest spot 
in the world, I think.” 

So in due time Julian packed up all his books and 
prizes, and bade farewell to his friends, and turned 
his back on Camford. It is as impossible to leave 
one’s college without emotion as it is to enter it, and 
the tears often started to Julian’s eyes as the train 
whirled him off to Elstan. He had cause, if any man 
ever had, to look back to Camford with regret and 
love. His course had been singularly successful, sin- 
gularly happy. He had entered St. W erner’s as a sizar, 
he left it as a Fellow, and not 

“With academic laurels unbestowed.” 

He had grown in calmness, in strength, in wisdom ; 
he had learnt many practical lessons of life ; he had 
gained new friends, without losing the old. He had 
learnt to honor all men, and to be fearless for the 
truth. His mind had become a well- man aged instru- 
ment, which he could apply to all purposes of discovery, 
research, and thought ; he was wiser, better, braver, 
nearer the light. In a word, he had learnt the great 
purpose of life — sympathy and love to further man’s 
interest, faith and prayer to live ever for God’s glory. 
And not a few of these lessons he owed to his college, 
to its directing influence, its ennobling associations, its 
studies — all bent towards that which is permanent and 
eternal, not to the transitory and superficial. To the 
latest day of his life the name of St. Werner’s remained 
to Julian Home an incentive to all that is noble and 
manly in human effort. He felt the same duty with 
regard to it as the generous scion of an illustrious 
house feels towards the ancient name which he has 
inherited, and the noble lineage whence he has sprung. 

The few months which were to elapse before his 
marriage Julian spent in preparing the vicarage for 
his young betrothed, and he stored it with everything 
21 


322 


JULIAN HOME. 


which could delight a simple yet refined and educated 
taste. There was an indefinable charm about it — the 
charm of home. You felt on entering it that its owner 
destined it as the place around which his fondest affec- 
tions were to centre, and his work in life was to be 
done. Julian had not the restless mind which sighs 
for continual change ; happy in himself and his own 
resources, and the honest endeavor to do good, the 
glory of the green fields, the changes of the varying 
year, supplied him with a wealth of beauty which was 
sufficient for all his needs, and when — after some long 
day’s work amid the cottages, reading to the sick at 
their lonely bedsides, listening to the prattle of the 
children in the infant schools, talking to the laborers 
as they rested at their work — he refreshed himself by 
a gallop across the free fresh downs, or a quiet stroll 
under the rosy apple-blossoms of his orchard or garden, 
Julian might have said with more truth than most 
men can, that he was a happy and a contented man. 




CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD. 

FAREWELL. 

“ Hear the mellow wedding bells, 

Golden bells ! 

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 

Oh from out the sounding cells, 

What a gush of euphony voluminously swells ! ” 

Edgar Poe. 

Merrily, merrily rang out the sweet bells of Orton- 
on-the-Sea ; more merrily than they ever rang before ; 
so merrily that it seemed as if they would concentrate 
into every single clash and clang of their joyous peal 
a tumult of inexpressible happiness greater than they 
would ever be able to enjoy again. If you look up at the 
belfry, you will see them swing and dance in a very 
delirium of ecstasy, such as made everybody laugh 
while he listened, and chased away the possibility of 
sorrow, and thrilled the very atmosphere with an im- 
pression of hilarity and triumph. 

All Orton is astir. Mr. Kennedy is the squire of 
the parish, and the villagers may well love him as they 
do. The son and daughter of the squire are not often 
married on the same day ; and besides the double 
wedding, with its promise of an evening banquet and 
dance on the hall lawn to all the people of Orton, Eva 
and Edward are known well to every cottager, and 
loved as well as known. 

The hall is quite full, and the village inn is quite 
full, and all the neighboring gentry who are invited 
are hospitably entertaining such members of the two 
families as can find room nowhere else. Never had 
Orton seen such grand doings ; the very stables and 

323 



324 


JULIAN HOME . 


coach-houses are insufficient to receive the multitude 
of carriages. 

Several St. Wernerians are invited; and (as both 
Julian and Kennedy prefer to be alone on that morning) 
Lillyston, who has visited the place before, is lionizing 
them in the neighborhood, and with Willie, Kennedy’s 
orphan cousin, rows them over the little islet in the 
bay. As they come back, the hour for the wedding 
approaches, and Lillyston says to Owen — 

“ How I wish De Yayne were here ! ” 

“ But he is in Florence, is he not ? ” says Owen. 

They have hardly spoken when a carriage with a 
coronet on the panels dashes up to the Lion Inn ; a 
young man alights, hands out a lady, and enters the 
inn. 

“ Surely that must be De Yayne himself,” says 
Suton, running forward. Mean while the young man, 
after taking the lady into a private room, asks if he 
may see Mr. Home or Mr. Kennedy, and is shown up 
to the parlor in which they are sitting. 

“ De Yayne ! ” they both exclaim in surprise. 

“Yes, Julian!” he answers cheerily; “ I only re- 
turned from Florence two days ago, heard of your 
marriage from the Ildown people, and determined to 
come with my mother a self-invited guest.” 

“ Don’t fear for my feelings,” he continued, turning 
to Kennedy. “ Nothing is so useless or dangerous as 
to nurse a hopeless love, like the flame burning in the 
hearts of the banqueters at the feast of Eblis. No, 
Kennedy, I love Yiolet, but only as a sister now, and 
you must not be afraid if I claim one kiss after the 
marriage from the bride. You shall have the same 
privilege some day soon.” 

“ Your coming is the completion of my happiness,” 
said Kennedy, cordially shaking his hand. “I will 
run and tell Yiolet at once, lest she should be alarmed 
by seeing you.” 

“ Yes ; and to show her why we may continue to 
have communion as friends, tell her that there is a 
gentle Florentine girl, with dark eyes, and dark hair, 
and a sweet voice, who, as my mother will bear wit- 


JULIAN NOME. 825 

ness, has promised in a year’s time to leave ner Casa 
d’oro for Uther Hall,” he said, smiling. 

They took him down to see the others, who rejoiced 
to see him nearly as much as they did, and the time 
sped on for the wedding to be performed. The car- 
riages had already started to convey the bridegrooms 
and their friends to church, when another carriage 
drove rapidly along the street, carrying another most 
unexpected guest. 

It had been arranged that Cyril and Frank should 
come down to Orton on the morning of the ceremony, 
as there was a difficulty in finding room for them. It 
was very late, and they were beginning to be afraid 
that the boys had missed a train, and would not arrive 
till after the ceremony, when they made their trium- 
phant entry into Orton in a carriage by the side of 
Lady Vinsear ? 

Only imagine! Being left almost alone at Ildown 
while the others had gone to Orton to make arrange- 
ments for the marriage, Cyril had audaciously pro- 
posed to his brother that, as it was through them that 
Lady Vinsear’s wrath had "been kindled against Julian, 
they should go over and see whether the old lady would 
admit them into her presence, or in any way suffer her- 
self to be pacified. The proposal was quite a sudden 
one, and the thought had only come into Cyril’s head 
because he had nothing else to do. But he had no 
sooner thought of it than he determined to carry it 
out. lie felt certain that Lady Vinsear could not be 
so totally unlike his late father as to have become 
wholly ill-natured and implacable, and he was sure 
that no harm could result from his visit even if no 
good were done. 

So the boys drove over in a pony chaise to Lonstead 
Abbey, and knocking at the door asked if Lady 
Vinsear was at home. 

“Yes,” said the old servant, opening his eyes in 
astonishment at the apparition of the two boys, whom 
he had only seen as children four years before. 

“Then, ask if she will see Mr. Cyril and Master 
Frank Home. Stop, though ; is Miss Sprong at home ? ” 


326 


JULIAN HOME. 


“ O no, Master Cyril ; la bless you, Miss Sprong, sir, 
has gone and married Farmer Jones this year gone.” 

“ Has she indeed ? O then, take my message, please, 
James.” 

They had come at the right moment. In the large 
drawing-room of Lonstead Abbey Lady Vinsear was 
sitting with no companion but the orphan girl of a 
villager, to whom she gave a home, and who was amus- 
ing herself with a picture-book on a low stool by the 
fire; for though it was summer, the fire was lighted 
to give cheerfulness to the room. When Miss Sprong 
married a neighboring farmer Lady Vinsear had given 
her a handsome dowry, and refused ever to see her 
again, being in fact heartily tired of her malice and 
sycophancy, and above all, resenting the new breach 
which she had caused between herself and her brother’s 
family. Ever since her quarrel with Julian Lady Vin- 
sear had bitterly regretted the violence which had cut 
off from her that natural affection to which she had 
looked as the stay of her declining years. She had 
grown sadder as she grew older, and the loneliness of 
her life weighed heavily on her heart; yet in her obsti- 
nate pride she made an unutterable resolve never to 
take the initiative in restoring Julian to her favor. 

And as she sat there by the fire, longing in her 
secret soul for the society and love of some young 
hearts of her own kith and kin, she glanced away from 
the uninteresting little girl whom she had taken as a 
protegee to the likeness of Julian’s bright and thought- 
ful boyish features (which still, in spite of Miss Sprong, 
had retained a place over the mantelpiece), and re- 
membered the foolish little incident which had led to her 
rejection of him as her heir. The tears started to her 
eyes as she thought of it, and wished with all her heart 
that the two gay and merry boys whose frolic had 
caused the fracas were with her once more. How 
much she should now enjoy the pleasant sound of their 
young voices, and how gladly she would join in their 
unrestrained and innocent laughter. 

So when the bewildered James asked in his never- 
varying voice “ whether Master Cyril and Frank Home 


JULIAN HOME. 


327 


might see her,” Lady Vinsear fancied that she was 
seeing in a dream the fulfilment of her unexpressed 
wishes, and rubbed her eyes to find if she could really 
be wide awake. 

“What’s all this, James? Are you James, or am I 
in a dream ? ” 

“James, your ladyship.” 

“And do you really mean to tell me that my nephews 
are outside ? ” 

“ Yes, please your ladyship.” 

“Well, then, don’t keep them there a minute longer, 
James. Run along, Annie,” she said to the little girl. 
“It is time for you to be in bed.” 

Annie had hardly retired, when — a little shyly — the 
boys entered, uncertain of their reception. But Lady 
Vinsear started from her seat, and embraced them 
with the utmost affection. 

“My dear Cyril,” she said, kissing. him again, “how 
tall and handsome you have grown; and Frankie 
too, you are the image of Julian when he was your 
age.” 

The boys were amazed at the heartiness with which 
she welcomed them, as though nothing had happened, 
and after she had given them a capital supper, she said 
to them, “Now, boys, I see you are rather puzzled at 
me. Never mind that ; don’t think of what has hap- 
pened. We mean all to be friends now. And now 
tell me all about Julian.” 

They found, however, that Lady Vinsear knew a 
'good deal about his college career from her neighbor 
Lord De Vayne, who had kept her acquainted with all 
his successes and honors up to the period when De 
Vayne left Uther Hall. Since then she had not been 
able to gain much information about him, and had not 
heard the news either of his Fellowship, his approach- 
ing marriage, or his acceptance of a college living. 

She listened eagerly to the intelligence, and finally 
asked if he knew of their visit. 

“ No,” said Cyril, laughing ; “ neither he nor any 
of them. Now, Aunt Vinsear, you really must do me 
a favor. You know Vi. is to be married at Orton on 


JULIAN HOME. 


328 

the same day as Julian ; won’t you come with Us to the 
wedding, and surprise them all ? If you were to start 
by an early train, and take the carriage with you, we 
should drive up in time for the ceremony, and it would 
be such a happy joke for all concerned.” 

The old lady was delighted with the plan. Meet- 
ing on such an occasion, when the minds of all were so 
much occupied, would avert the necessity of anything 
approaching to a scene, which of all things she most 
dreaded. She felt a flood of new interests, occupations, 
and hopes ; she made the boys stay with her until the 
appointed day, and looked forward to Cyril’s triumph 
with a delight which made her happier than she had 
been for many a long year. 

And thus it was that Cyril and Frank drove into 
the town in gallant style, accompanied by Lady Yin- 
sear ! They stopped at the door of the Lion, and 
hearing that Julian had started, got white favors 
placed at the horses’ heads, and dashed on to the 
church. The brides had not arrived, but they were 
expected every moment ; and Mr. Yere (who had most 
kindly come to perform the ceremony) was putting on 
his surplice in the vestry, while Julian and Kennedy, 
with Owen, Lilly s ton, and De Yayne, were strolling 
up and down a pretty, retired laurel walk behind the 
church. Hearing where they were, the boys, accom- 
panied by their aunt, boldly invaded their privacy, and 
reached the end of the walk just as the gentlemen were 
approaching to enter the church. 

“Good gracious, Lady Yinsear ! ” said De Yayne. 

“ Hush, hush ! ” she said. “ Come here, Julian, and 
kiss your old aunt, and welcome her on your wedding- 
day, and don’t think of bygones. I am proud to see 
you, my boy and he felt a tear on his cheek as the 
old lady drew down his head to kiss him. 

“And now,” she said, “don’t tell any of the rest 
that I have come till after the marriage. I hear the 
sound of wheels. Put mein some pew near the altar, 
Julian, that I may have a good long look at your bride 
and Yiolet’s bridegroom.” 

They had just time to fulfil her wish when the 


JfrLiAN HOME. 


329 


Carriages drove up, and the bridal procession formed, 
and, followed by their bride’s-maids, Violet and Eva 
passed up the aisle in all their loveliness, with wreaths 
of myrtle and orange-flower round their fair foreheads, 
and long, graceful veils, and simple ornaments of pearl. 

How beautiful they were! A bride always looks 
beautiful, but these two were radiant and exquisite in 
their loveliness. Most men would have given the golden 
apple to Eva, with the sweet, tender grace that played 
about her young features, almost infantile in their 
delicacy, and with those bright, beaming, laughter-lov- 
ing eyes, of which the light could not be hid though 
she bent her face downward to hide the bridal blush 
that tinged it ; but yet they would have doubted about 
the decision when they turned from her to the full 
flower of Violet’s beauty, and gazed on her perfect face, 
so enchanting in its meekness, and on that one tress of 
golden hair that played upon her neok. 

De Vayne, as he looked on the perfect scene, took 
out a piece of paper, and wrote on it Spencer’s lines : — 

“ Behold, while she before the altar stands, 

Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks 
And blesses her with his two happy hands, 

How the red roses flush up in her cheeks 
And the pure snow with golden vermeil stain, 

Like crimson dyed in grain.” 

lie handed the lines to Lillyston and Owen, and they 
saw from the happy smile upon his face that no touch 
of regret or envy marred his present meditations. 

Has life any pleasure — any deep unspoken happi- 
ness — comparable to that which fills a young man’s 
whole soul when he stands beside the altar with such 
a bride as Violet or Eva was ? — when he thinks that the 
fair, blushing girl, whose white hand trembles in his 
own, is to be the star of his home, the mother of his 
children, the sunbeam shining steadily on all his life? 
Verily he who hath experienced such a joy has found 
a jewel richer 

“ Than twenty seas though all their sands were pearl, 
Their waters crystal, and their rocks pure gold.” 


330 


JULIAN HOME. 


The service was over, and in those few moments four 
young souls had passed over the marble threshold of 
married life. Violet felt that the presence of De Vayne 
removed the only alloy to that deep happiness that 
spoke in the eloquent lustre of her eye, and she told 
him so as he bent to kiss her hand, and as Lady De 
Vayne clasped her to her heart with an affectionate 
embrace. All the people of the village awaited them 
at the porch, and as they passed along the path the 
village children, lining the way, and standing heed- 
less on the green mounds that covered the crumbling 
relics of mortality, scattered under their happy feet 
a thousand flowers. One passing thought, perhaps, 
about the lesson which those green mounds told flitted 
through the minds of the bridal party as they left the 
trodden blossoms to wither on the churchyard path, but 
if so, it. was. but as the shadow of a summer cloud, and 
it vanished as with a sudden clash the bells rang out 
again, thrilling the tremulous air with their enthusiasm 
of happy auguries, and the sailor boys of Orton gave 
cheer on cheer while brides and bridegrooms entered 
their carriages, and drove from under the umbrage of 
the churchyard yews to the elms and oaks and lime-tree 
avenues of the hall. 

Oh that happy day ! The wedding breakfast had 
been laid in a large tent on the lawn, whence you could 
catch bright glimpses of the blue sea, and the islet, 
and the passing ships, while on all sides around it the 
garden glowed a paradise of blossom, and the fragrance 
of sweet flowers floated to them through the golden 
air. Rich fruits and gorgeous bouquets covered the 
table, and the whole tent was gay with wreaths and 
anadems. And then, what ringing laughter, what 
merry jests, what earnest, happy talk! Let us not 
linger there too long ; and from this scene I bid avaunt 
to the coarse cynical reader who is too strong-minded 
to believe in love. 

Only let the gentle reader fancy for himself how 
beautiful were the few words with which Mr. Vere 
proposed the health of the brides, and how long they 
remembered his earnest wish, that though the truest 


JULIAN HOME. 


331 


love is often that which has been sanctified by sorrow, 
yet that they might he spared the sorrow, and enjoy 
the truest love. And he will fancy how admirably 
Julian and Kennedy replied — Julian in words of poetic 
feeling and thoughtful power, Kennedy with quick 
flashes of picturesque expression, both with the elo- 
quence of sincere and deep emotion ; and how gracefully 
l)e Vayne proposed the health of the bridesmaids, for 
whom Cyril and Lillyston replied. Then, too quickly, 
came the hour of separation ; the old shoe was flung 
after the carriages, the bridal couples departed for a 
tour among the lakes, and the villagers danced and 
feasted till twilight on the lawn. 

Six w’eeks are over since the marriage-day, and there, 
in Southampton harbor, lies the Valleyfield, which is 
to convey Kennedy and Violet to Calcutta. They 
have just spoken the last long, lingering farewell to 
Eva and Julian, who are standing in deep tearful si- 
lence on the pier, and are watching the little boat which 
is conveying their only brother and only sister to the 
ship. The boat is but a few moments in reaching the 
Valleyfield, and when they are on board the vessel 
weighs anchor, and ruffles her white plumage, and 
flings her pennons to the breeze, and begins to dash 
the blue water into foam about her prow. Violet and 
her husband are standing at the stern, and as long as 
the vessel is in sight they wave their hands in token 
of farewell. It is but a short time and then the Valley- 
field grows into a mere dot on the horizon, and Eva 
and Julian, heedless of the crowds around them, do not 
check the tears as they flow, and speak to each other 
in voices broken by sorrow as they slowly turn away. 

That evening Violet and Kennedy knelt side by side 
in their little cabin to join in common prayer, and 
Julian led Eva over the threshold of their quiet and 
holy home. 

And their path thenceforth was “as the shining 
light, shining more and more to the perfect day.” 


THE END. 















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